Morgan Oil Refinery, Arizona, Pacific StatesAn eagle screeched somewhere overhead as Joseph DeWitt, a Pinkerton agent hired by the Morgan Oil Company to guard company property, looked out across the scrublands bordering the high wooden fences of the facility from his solitary watchtower, linked to the outside only by an equally solitary railroad. He struck a match against the heel of his boot and lit a cigarette, idly puffing away while counting the hours until he could come down out of the blistering heat. The sound of yelling from below distracted him, and he peered over the guardrail to look below and see company workers and other Pinkertons grabbing guns. "What in the hell is going on?" He asked, hoping to get some kind of reply.
"Injuns! We just got word by telegram, maybe 100 or 200 riding up from the South! They raided Safford just this morning, 10 miles away!" His friend, Agent Johnston, called back.
"Shit." DeWitt muttered to himself, picking up his Winchester 1886 and hastily loading in five extra cartridges. His commander, Agent Franklin, walked out from his quarters half-dressed, and shouted at DeWitt "You stay in that tower and watch the horizon."
"Yes sir!" DeWitt yelled in response. He wrenched the field glasses off the post from which they hung by a strap and peered through them across the horizon. He could see the Indians riding up from the south on their horses, armed with rifles and kicking up dust far above their height. DeWitt set them down and picked his rifle up. "We got em comin from the South, I think about 70!" Other Pinkertons and refinery workers put ladders up to the fence from which they could shoot, and the railroad gates were shut. Franklin started barking orders and DeWitt, from his elevated position, readied his gun. Franklin gave the order to fire and down the line the cracking of rifles was head. Dewitt squeezed the trigger and the Indian he was aiming at slumped and fell off his horse. He pulled the lever on the rifle back and forth and took a shot at another one, getting the rounds off quick as possible.
The Indians circled around the perimeter of the refinery, taking shots at the men on the fences. Two of them produced sticks of dynamite and tossed them at a spot in the fence, blowing the weak wooden structure apart and sending splinters up in the air. They rushed in on their horses, some dismounting and taking cover, before the defenders could react. DeWitt took more shots at them, then wheeled around to point his gun when he heard someone coming up the stairs to the tower. He was relieved to see his friend, Johnston, panting as he ran up, rifle in hand. "No way in Hell am I dying down there. Franklin says we just got to hold out until the Army gets here from Fort McDowell, so I figure this is the safest spot to be until then."
"God damn, I hope you're right. Where in Christ's name did these Indians get dynamite and repeater guns anyways?"
"Call me the Tsar of Russia if I know, more shooting, less questions!"
"Right!" DeWitt could see the Indians gradually herding the remaining defenders into a circle around the main buildings, and some of them went to the storage tanks on the far side of the refinery, putting more dynamite there. DeWitt was about to take a shot at one of them when Johnston got his attention and said "Hey! There's more a-comin!" He turned around and indeed there was, the other 100 or so Indians, riding up from the west. Before he could say anything, a bullet took DeWitt in the back of the head, and all went dark.
2 hours laterAn army train steamed along the desolate rails towards the refinery. From even miles away the men on board could see smoke rising from the strong-burning oil fires. Major Fulton, the commander of the Pacific States Army detachment sent, looked ahead at the tracks from a car just behind the engine. When he could see the refinery and hear the gunshots over the constant pounding of the steam engine, he gave the order to stop. The brakes screeched as the train slowed gradually to a stop, and soldiers dismounted from the flatbed cars in the back, rifles in hand.
Fulton jumped down from his private railcar to the ground and barked orders at the men to run up and take position on a nearby hill, confident the Indians would take the chance to charge him, lacking cavalry of his own. The men lined up rank and file in three rows, some men prone, some kneeling, and some standing. From a boxcar, teams of men brought up large items draped in canvas, to conceal them, and placed them down in between the formations of men, being sure to camouflage them well. Fulton observed the situation at the refinery, his right hand man, Captain Laramie, beside him. "Yeah, like I thought. These Pinkerton boys are here to deal with strikers and agitators, not god damned raiders. There hasn't been one like this in years."
"They're coming out on the horses, sir, they've seen us." Laramie noted.
"So they are." Fulton replied.
Leaving a token force of 30 or so to keep the surviving refinery men holed up in an office building, the Indians rode out to greet the Army, whooping as they did.
"Give the order, now."
"Roger that, sir. Gunners! Ready to fire on my command!" Laramie shouted
The men handling the heavy equipment pulled off the canvas, revealing shiny Maxim guns they fed belts of .30-04.
"Fire!"
The Maxim guns opened up on the Indian riders in unison with the soldiers, firing off round after round from their bolt-action rifles. Rider after rider was cut down, the horses spooking and bolting. The remaining Indians cut a hasty retreat, leaving the remaining survivors alone. Fulton, satisfied with the carnage, took in the air and said "You smell that, Captain? That's gunpowder. Not the stench that one or two rifles firing off gives, but what these beasts give off that lingers for hours after. I love the smell of it in the evening."
"We sure showed the savages." Laramie remarked.
"You know I've got to thinking, Captain. We've got all the Indians on the reservations in check and disarmed. Navajo, Apache, whatnot."
"Yeah?"
"So where are they coming from then?"
Laramie gave no answer, thinking for a second
"Mexico, that's where." Fulton finished for him.