Western Legends: Rise Of The Dark Raiders

CHAPTER ONE

THE TRAIL OF TEARS

JAMES BUCHANAN, LEAD BRIGADIER GENERAL, scoured the gorge with an assemblage of carefully selected troops at his command. He rode his horse cautiously onward as he instinctively threw his head back over his shoulders. Keep your eyes sharp, men, Buchanan said, raising his voice so it could be heard throughout the long stretched line of the regiment. These canyons are filled with concealment. A surprise ambush could inspire before we know it, he informed his troops.

Despite the warmth, Buchanan was tricked out in a dark blue, double-breasted shell jacket, complete with parallel gold-domed buttons fastened down the front, a black velvet collar, gold embroidered French cuffs, and a fixed, short flowing rain cape. His trousers were sky blue and trimmed with stripes of gold, leading down to calf-high polished black riding boots. He flaunted a black felt Hardee hat with infantry adornments secured on its crown.

He led a prominent convoy with each soldier atop their own noble charger. Sluggish from the heat, they rode in two aligned rows. They were heavily armed. Springfield rifles with slings were harnessed to their shoulders, serving as their primary weapon, while around their waistbands, they carried six-round Colt Walkers as their spare arms, facing butt-forward, perfectly nestled in their leather holsters.

These soldiers were precision marksmen; missing their target was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

On this day, July 4, 1850, the infantry advanced across a dirt trail somewhere in the majestic canyons of the Nevada desert, three days out from Churchill Fort. Their navigable route was through a valley with towering mountains, which flanked them from both sides as they penetrated deeper into the canyons. It’s late afternoon as a mysterious charcoal-colored smog blanketed the entire gorge. Through the clotted mist, an American flag toured high, held by the lead standard-bearer.

In the Union Cavalry, one hundred strong at least, each man contributed his role in this lengthy expedition. Brass buttons on their thin blue jackets flashed on their chests. Their trademark Hardee hats had one brim secured by a metallic eagle after the U.S. coat of arms. Their jackets were a Prussian blue, tight-fitting and waist-length, trimmed with the arm of service stripes along the collar edges. The design of the French cuff signified their ranks.

Buchanan cringed at the sound of the horses’ hooves cracking against the loose dirt and echoing across the silent canyon. Most of the soldiers he led were young, in their twenties and thirties, with few in their forties and fifties, but they were all highly trained, seasoned veterans.

The infantry had been in pursuit of a band of Confederate guerillas, known as the Dark Raiders, who’d escaped from their clutches weeks ago. Their commander was a vicious man named William Bloody Bill Anderson. Over the last two years, Bloody Bill and his Dark Raiders had left a trail of blood across five different western states, showing no sign of remorse or mercy. In the mind of Buchanan, the only reward big enough would be the complete demise of Dark Raiders. They were the most wanted criminals in the western region. Bloody Bill had never been one to abide by moral conventions or the rules of war.

Buchanan brought the infantry to a sudden halt with a raise of his fist. He tilted his hat up over his weather-beaten face, a face that represented a lifetime of war. His eyes may have been old, but they were sharp—his vision cautiously swept the formidable mountains surrounding them. Their trail leads here. Buchanan scratched at his thick caterpillar mustache, which matched his porkchop sideburns. We’re close.

Riding abreast of Buchanan was Amos Young, a first lieutenant, who was five years younger, which made him barely forty. He was furbished in similar attire as Buchanan, except for the sardine box shoulder bars with one braid displaying his rank. He was raw-boned, blue-eyed, and pure muscle. He peered intently into the fog. Are you sure about this, sir? Lt. Young said while stroking his handlebar mustache. These canyons are sacred grounds to Indians and have been known to be off-limits to wanderers. And not to mention this could be a trap.

It’s most certainly a trap, Lieutenant, Buchanan said. There is only one way in and out of these canyons, and I’m sure Bloody Bill is aware of it. A criminal he may be, but a fool he is not. But if Bloody Bill and his raiders are in here, we shall hunt them down at all costs.

Buchanan gazed at Lt. Young and saw a hint of trepidation in the younger soldier’s eyes: the cost he spoke of could easily be their lives. If my eyes don’t deceive me, lieutenant, it seems you look a little disturbed by this pursuit?

I just have my concerns about this, sir, Young said. Victory will not come easy in this haze. Our adversaries could blindside us before we know it.

This haze is our least concern, lieutenant. Buchanan then speared a look at Lt. Young. You know what Bloody Bill has in his possession. They lock eyes. And if he uses it, it could mean a catastrophe for mankind.

Yes, but—

But nothing! He roared. Buchanan’s stare grew rock-hard. He’d devoted so much time and energy chasing Bloody Bill and his men for years, the thought of them getting away was an unacceptable theory. I’ve waited a long time to have Bill and his men cornered, and this may be our only chance to wipe them out. Do you understand, Lieutenant?

Yes, I understand, sir.

Good. Now, lead on, Lieutenant.

Yes, sir. General. Lt. Young replied before swiveling his head back toward the unrested troops. He shouted, Soldiers! Move out! Without hesitating, the mounted infantry rode ahead through the sylphlike trail.

The troops continued down the path for about a quarter-mile. The trail narrowed, and the temperature began to drop as the sun leisurely drifted behind the brow of the mountains, the evening looming near. The men-at-arms rode briskly along. An unnatural wailing wind picked up, causing Buchanan to clutch his coat against the chill. A cluster of gloomy clouds snuck over their heads as an unkind rain began to fall, thunder and lightning rolling through the mountains.

Carrying the rear of the caravan was a spirited young trooper named Adam Maverick with bristly eyebrows, thin lips, a smoothly shaven face, and a fit physique. He was unruffled even though this was his first assignment. Next to him rode a veteran soldier named Clyde; his hands and face were wrinkled by age. Although Clyde had been in many battles and skirmishes throughout his service in the military, he was the one frazzled. Clyde peered up at the clouds. Those clouds look mighty angry up there, he said. This harsh weather is a sign.

What do you mean? It’s only a storm. Are you afraid to get wet, old-timer? Maverick said.

Do you ever remember it being this cold in midsummer?

Maverick pondered Clyde’s words. The coolness was a bit strange.  What’s your point?

You don’t know where we are, do ya?

We’re in the canyons.

These aren’t just any canyons, Clyde said. This is no place for travelers. Not even for soldiers. We shouldn’t be here. These bandits are leading us in here for a reason, I tell ya. Clyde’s eyes shot upward as lightning flashed in the distance, followed by the rolling rumble of thunder.

I’m sure General Buchanan has thought of that, Maverick said.

But why lead us here? We should turn back while we still have the chance.

Are you forgetting what a pursuit is? Maverick responded.

In a place like this, the only thing we’ll be pursuing is sure death. These bandits are the least of our troubles.

Maverick glared. What do you mean?

This is the Trail of Tears. Native tribes were slaughtered in these canyons. Their wandering souls still haunt this soil. This place is hexed, I tell ya.

Hexes are nothing but bedtime stories.

If we’re not careful, this bedtime story could put us to sleep . . . forever.

Maverick shook his head. He’d heard that Clyde was a bit unhinged.

Clyde spat. Angry Natives still dwell within these canyons. 

Why should we worry? We have guns; they have arrows, Maverick said.

You’re a young fool! Guns won’t be of any help against black magic. A heavy silence hung in the air between them for a moment. Unfortunately for us, natives often attack during the night. They’re sneaky like that. So, keep your eyes op—

Suddenly a single shot reverberated in the canyons as Clyde’s body jerked suddenly to the right; a bloom of red blossomed on his chest as his lifeless body toppled from his horse.

Maverick and the rest of the regiment reacted. Buchanan ordered the entire regiment to cease while Young signaled with his hands for the troops to draw their firearms. Maverick scanned the perimeter and wondered where the shot had come from. The silver rain mixed with the smog, crippling his view.

Movement from the canyon wall above them caught Maverick’s eye. When he looked, he saw gun barrels poking out from both sides of the bushes atop the rocky ridge, taking aim at the cavalry. Shots rang out. Soldiers tumbled over their horses as they were gunned down. It was a perfectly planned ambush.

Ambush! Buchanan yelled as soldiers continued to fall. Shoot the bushes! Buchanan ordered his men, and they did just that.

The infantry fired back at the bandits concealed inside the bushes. The bullets pierced the shrubs as the lifeless bodies of the bushwhackers spilled down the ridge. For a moment, the shooting stalled. Hold your fire, men! Buchanan commanded. Buchanan and his men surveyed the area, searching for more targets to shoot, but there were none.

The infantry stood loaded and ready as the pitter-patter of rain tapped against the rocks and soil. Then came the sound of thundering hooves, growing louder like a miniature earthquake. The cavalry peered around. The fog still obscured their view.

Thirty or so dark riders in all black came charging through the haze from a hillside as they galloped down the barranca. The riders were rigged with harquebuses, blazing at the troops. It was the Dark Raiders! These men had a reputation for killing entire towns, women, children, just about anything that walked or crawled in their path. These were the type of men who would die before they surrendered.

When the riders drew near, shots fired, knives swung, fists and feet were thrown. Combat exploded. The two sides fought in the wet mud, the infantry doing their best to shield themselves against the onslaught. Men were torn from their horses while others purposefully dismounted to fight. 

Despite the raiders having the element of surprise, the soldiers possessed more skill than their adversary; their military tactics were far superior, and they bullied the raiders back. Buchanan, amid the chaos, peered through the downpour and noticed a silhouette on a hilltop high above. He saw, through the mist, a dark rider on horseback surveying the battlefield. It was none other than Bloody Bill, the leader of the Dark Raiders.

Bloody Bill was dressed entirely in black. His eyes burned under his black Bolero hat. He sported a heavy beard that camouflaged his lips. Long, straight, unkempt black hair cascaded over his shoulders. His face exposed a left-bottom gold tooth that flashed in his sinister grin. Bloody Bill clutched a black flag—the Raiders’ banner—which he held high above his head. On the flag were two white, crisscrossed pistols. He brought his horse onto its hind legs before he retreated away from the ledge, disappearing into the moist haze.

Buchanan turned to Lt. Young. Lieutenant! I’m going after Bloody Bill! Disperse this mob, Buchanan demanded. Lt. Young replied with a nod and continued fighting from horseback. General Buchanan rode up the slope in the same direction Bill had vanished.     

  ***

The trail was quiet. The rain abruptly reduced to a meek drizzle. Buchanan trotted along, following a trail of footprints in the loose clay. The pathway led to a remote eldritch cave, the buildup of rainfall creating a miniature waterfall that spilled over the cave's mouth. It was a tapering structure of stalactites hanging like giant serrated teeth from the cave’s mouth. Buchanan halted and dismounted his horse by the cave entrance, grabbing his rifle as he did.

Buchanan moved forward cautiously to keep his footing on the begrimed soil surface. He placed the stock to his shoulder and peered down the iron sights, ready for anything, as he gradually crept inside the cavern. Once inside, Buchanan’s eyes darted along with the cluster of rock formations. Then, suddenly, a gunshot chipped a chunk out from the rock wall beside him, narrowly missing his head. Buchanan quickly took cover behind an angular-shaped boulder as he placed his back to it. Four more shots pierced the boulder stone. He peeked his head over the rock.

Buchanan finally came out from the boulder and spun around, and aimed his rifle. He found his target: Bloody Bill swaggered out from behind a huge boulder, holding his hands up in a surrendering gesture. Well, well, if it isn't the great general James Buchanan, said Bill. The one they say who always gets his man. A wolfish grin stitched across his face.

I always thought you would be a better shot than that, Bill! Said Buchanan.

And I always thought you would be younger and bigger, general. Bill stepped a few feet closer to Buchanan. As you can see, I’m unarmed.

When did you become the surrendering kind?

You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would ya, general. Buchanan's barrel stayed locked on Bills’ body. His finger slowly tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. He poised to pull the trigger, but then his finger loosens from the trigger.

No. I wouldn’t. But for you, I may make an exception.

Now, that hurts me, general, Bill snickered. Even coming from a soldier scum like you.

There’s only one scum here. Besides, I doubt that you are completely unarmed.

You’re smarter than you look, general.

It’s over, Bill. You’re trapped. 

I’m never trapped, General. There’s always a way out.

Look around you; there’s no escaping. You kill me, and there will be fifty men in blue waiting for you. Ready to shoot the first person they see in black. Buchanan responded with his rifle still directed at Bloody Bill’s head. You and your men are done raising havoc on this country.

That’s where you’re wrong, General. My men and I will always walk this earth, whether you like it or not.

Your men are being disposed of as we speak. If you don’t want to join them, I suggest you come with me quietly.

Bloody Bill slowly began to trek toward Buchanan with his hands still hoisted in the air. You just don’t get it, do you, General? This is all part of my agenda. 

You come any closer, I’ll drop you where you stand.

Bill smiled. If you wanted me dead, you would’ve squeezed the trigger by now. 

You’re right. I’d rather see you hang. I know what you have in your possession, Bloody Bill. And it won’t save you.

Wrong again, General. You see, it doesn’t matter if you kill me or my men.

Bloody Bill slowly reached his free hand in his vest and pulled out a rolled-up, russet-colored scroll. You’re too late. I’ve already deciphered the symbols from this scroll, which has been cast upon us.

It’s going to take more than witchcraft to save you, Buchanan said.

You can either come with me with your hands up or with your hands down . . . permanently. The choice is yours. This is your final warning.

That rifle looks a little heavy for you, general. This makes me think you should have retired a long time ago. I’m willing to bet I can shoot you before you pull the trigger.

Whatever happened to you being unarmed? Buchanan said.

Bill grinned. You’re too old for a dual, Buchana. I’m willing to bet my life on it.

That’s a gamble you won’t win. Now, surrender!

Me, surrender?" Bill snickered.

Both men were still a moment, each measuring and predicting the outcome of the standoff.  I’ll take my chances with my six-shooter. Bloody Bill reached behind his back, aimed his pistol, and fired a shot in Buchanan’s shoulder in a flash of movement. The shot wasn’t enough to prevent Buchanan from returning a shot of his own that pierced Bill square in the chest. Buchanan’s shot was much more ruinous. Bloody Bill’s body plummeted to the ground, losing his grip on the scroll in the process.

An injured Buchanan staggered over, still aiming his rifle, assuring himself that Bill wouldn’t venture a desperate attempt to move. It only took a few seconds for Buchanan to decipher that Bloody Bill’s soul had left his body. Your gun was fast but not accurate enough, said Buchanan. He grimaced in pain as he inspected the wound on his shoulder. His eyes then drifted over to the scroll on the ground a few feet from the body. He carefully picked it up and examined it.

Buchanan was startled by a loud crack of thunder and a flash of lightning that illuminated the cave's mouth. Seconds passed, and suddenly Bill’s body mysteriously sank beneath the earth, like the ground was quicksand consuming his corpse.

What in God’s name? Buchanan mumbled. He kneeled and placed his hand over the sand where Bloody Bill’s body had sunk, but the ground was tough and solidified. Buchanan rose to his feet still in shock and then looked at the scroll with astonishment. He bent over and plucked it from the ground. He unrolled the worn-out papyrus with fiery pictographs that glowed gold as if the images were burning from within the sheet. It was obvious the scroll was magical, and Buchanan knew it.

***

Back at the battlefield, it was quiet, the fog more translucent, and the rain had finally ceased. The open trail was littered with lifeless bodies. The fray had ended, and the cavalry was triumphant, but there was no joy. Many of the soldiers were among the deceased. The remaining soldiers gathered the bodies of their fallen comrades. Their mud-spattered uniforms may have been ruined, but their deeds were complete. The remaining living Dark Raiders, severely wounded, were roughly ushered away to be held as prisoners.

Lt. Young observed the Raiders grimly. Such vicious lads. I’m surprised any of us survived, he said, a sour tone in his voice.

A soldier appeared on the high ground. Lieutenant, Sir, there’s no sign of Bloody Bill, nor the general, the trooper announced.

Keep searching! Lt. Young shouted back. The soldier confirmed with a nod and trotted off. As he did, a slight tremor shook the ground. Young stumbled as the earth vibrated beneath his feet.

Lieutenant, look! Maverick yelled.

Lt. Young watched as the lifeless body of a Dark Raider was pulled under the soil, as the earth swallowed him whole. Lt. Young spun around as all the corpses of the Dark Raiders were digested under the loam.

I’ve never seen such a thing, sir, said Maverick.

It’s some form of black magic, Lt. Young responded, baffled.

With his attention on the unnatural sight, Lt. Young didn’t see the rider approaching from the mist, coming down the gulch at a steady gallop. The soldiers drew their guns. Ready to shoot the rider that approached. It was General Buchanan, alone, as he sagged over on his horse, wounded. Young and Maverick rushed toward him, assisting him off his steed. General? You’re wounded, said Young.

Not to worry. Just a flesh wound, he said.

What happened? Where’s Bloody Bill? Young asked, glancing behind the general.

There is no more Bloody Bill. He’s been eliminated.

As well as most of his men, sir, Young added. But oddly, the ones that perished...well, they disappeared under the ground.

It was like Satan himself had snatched their souls from below. I’ve never seen anything like it, General, Maverick said. Buchanan and Lt. Young shared a look of confirmation.

Maverick, why don’t you go help round up the wounded for our departure, said Young. Maverick treads off. General, were you able to retrieve the scroll?

Buchanan furtively pulled out the scroll from his vest. I was fortunate to find it on Bloody Bill.

I hope we weren’t too late? Young said.

I don’t believe we were.

There aren’t many of them left, but we’ve taken the remaining raiders into custody. Even if a judge decides to spare their lives, they’ll spend the rest of the days looking through bars.

Good work, Lieutenant, Buchanan said.

What about the bodies that disappeared? Should we worry? asked Young.

They’re where they belong, Buchanan said, nodding at Young. Bloody Bill and his Dark Raiders are no more. This day will be marked in history. Now, get the wounded on horses and take the remaining prisoners away, Buchanan instructed.

***

A few days later, the surviving infantry rode into Sacramento City. A ceremony was in progress. The infantry was being honored for their triumph over the Dark Raiders—an allegedly impossible task. Bugles were blown by a column of soldiers in harmony. A congregation of citizens watched from the sidewalk, throwing flower pedals and coins onto the street in front of the soldiers. Even the sun seemed to shine extra bright that day.

General Buchanan, adorned in a fresh uniform with star-embroidered gold epaulets, stood tall and proud with his arm in a sling in front of the governor of Sacramento. A big, burly man, the governor placed a medal of honor on Buchanan’s chest. Despite Buchanan’s condition, he raised his chin proudly.

This day shall always be remembered as a day of victory for this nation. Congratulations, General, said the governor.

Thank you, Governor, he responded sharply. General Buchanan turned to face his men, who saluted him in unison. 

A few days later, back at Churchill Fort, inside his huge office, General Buchanan sat behind an oak wood desk, writing in a vintage leather journal. A journal he’d kept since his first days in the military. Despite the age of the notebook, it was still in good condition and had plenty of room for more ink. A hot, flickering fireplace gave the room an agreeable temperature. The scroll curled up on his table. Someone knocked at the door, and it opened. Lieutenant Young entered.

You wanted to see me, General, said Young.

Yes. Come in and have a seat, Lieutenant.

Young took a seat and then peered over the table and noticed wet new ink on the pages inside the notebook.

Writing memories again in your journal, sir? asked Young.

Every time I survive a battle, I like to be able to write how I lived through it. Over the years, I’ve become quite an author. Buchanan’s hand hovered over the page. He looked up at Young. I wanted to thank you for being a great lieutenant in my regiment. All the years you’ve spent at my side, not once have you ever let me down.

Thank you, sir.

And to tell you, I’ll be departing from the military.

Retiring? Why, sir?

Buchanan took a few seconds to answer. He sighed heavily. In all my years, I’ve seen many soldiers fall, and with every death, a part of me dies with them, he said.

Well, that’s what we signed up for, sir.

Yes. We did, but every man has his breaking point, Lieutenant. And I’ve reached mine. He traced two fingers across