The officer continued onward. Suddenly his mind registered the vaguest of human outlines. There seemed to be a man crouched behind a wide manzanita not three yards from him. Although he was uncertain whether his eyes were playing tricks on him, he didn’t stand there waiting to find out. He dived, and as he did, a gun went off.
Tick Bowdrie knew he had missed. He also knew the bushwhacker had his position pinpointed. So as he fired, he leaped to the right, landing on his side in dry weeds. Crawling forward, Tick flattened next to a bush. He reached for the bandoleer crisscrossing his chest for another shotgun shell.
About that time, Trooper Decker came crashing through the undergrowth. The private had seen the muzzle blast of the shotgun light up the night and had caught sight of his superior apparently falling to the ground. Levering a round into his carbine, he raced to help the officer.
Tick spotted him. The Tennessean’s fingers flew. In a blur he shoved in the new shell and brought the shotgun up. There was no need to aim. Not at that range. Not when using buckshot. He simply pointed at the center of his target, then fired. The figure seemed to blow apart from the waist up, and what was left crumpled like so much broken furniture.
Captain Benteen had heard the crackle of limbs as someone sprinted toward him. He had suspected it was one of his men and opened his mouth to shout a warning. The thunderous retort of the shotgun came a fraction of an instant sooner. In sheer horror he saw parts of the trooper go flying every which way. Sticky drops of gore splattered his cheeks and neck.
The officer caught sight of the Indian. Sparked by blinding rage, he jumped erect and charged, working the hammer of Ids pistol as he did. His second shot jerked the savage around, but the man thrust up onto his knees and tried to elevate his gun. Benteen fired again, and again, emptying the revolver. At the last shot the killer pitched face down.
Benteen stopped, his rage fading as abruptly as it had flared. Behind him something pattered. For some strange reason it bought to mind the sound a dog made when frolicking in a field. He whirled, hoping he would have time to reload before whatever it was reached him. But he was only halfway around when a hurtling mass of sinew and fur rammed into him with the force of a grizzly bear. Long, tapered teeth flashed before Benteen’s eyes. He could not help screaming when his shoulder was torn open clear down to the bone. In a panic he clubbed at the creature with his pistol but it did no good. The creature’s fangs sheared into him again.
Captain Oliver Benteen did not want to show weakness in front of his men. He had always taken pride in being as tough as the next man. Yet the onslaught of pounding pain was so intense that he could not keep from throwing back his head and screaming his lungs out.
In hindsight, it had been a mistake for Benteen to go after the White Apache. In hindsight, it would have been better if Benteen had left Antonio to fend for himself. And, in the fleeting instant of hindsight Benteen had before the beast’s iron jaws slashed into his exposed throat, it would have been better if he had not screamed.
Clell Bowdrie heard that strangled cry and smiled to himself as he snapped off four shots from his Winchester to keep their attackers pinned down. Rising up, he sprinted into the vegetation. Once he was under cover, he set down the rifle and hastily unslung his Cherokee bow. Stealth was called for now. In that regard, the bow was preferable to the .44-40.
Quickly notching an arrow, Clell spied a pair of dark forms gliding toward him. He smoothly drew the sinew string back to his cheek, sighted down the shaft, centered the barbed tip on the figure’s chest, and loosed the arrow simply by relaxing his fingers.
There was a loud thump and a louder grunt. The attacker staggered back, grasped at the feathered end of the shaft, then did a slow spin to the ground.
The other figure, panicking, commenced shooting wildly, swinging from side to side.
Clell kept on smiling as he pulled another arrow from his quiver and notched it. None of the shots were coming anywhere near him. Yet, at the same time, they let him know exactly where to aim. In another moment he was ready, his fingers beginning to ease off the nock, when a third dark shape dashed forward from an entirely different direction.
The lean Tennessean did not know if the newcomer had spotted him. It did not occur to him until seconds later that if he had stayed still, if he had not done anything to draw attention to himself, the man might have gone on by without noticing him. Instead, Clell swiveled and let the arrow fly. He acted hastily, without taking the moment or two needed to verify there were no trees or brush between the target and himself.
Clell’s movement caused the figure to whirl. The arrow, flying true, was an arm’s length from the bushwhacker when it struck a low manzanita limb and glanced upward, harmlessly deflected. Clell made a grab for a third shaft. But as he did, three shots shattered the chaparral and he was slammed onto his back.
The lean Tennessean could see stars sparkling far above. He attempted to stand but it was as if a tremendous weight had settled onto his chest. In addition, his limbs had turned to mush. He couldn’t lift an arm off the ground, let alone raise his body. A warm, moist sensation spread over his chest and down across his belly. Clell wanted to call out, to yell to Tick and Clem to be careful, but even that Simple achievement was denied him.
A black cloud enclosed Clell within an indigo cocoon. His final thought before the cloud consumed him was that he hoped his sister had found happiness at long last.
Unaware that both her brothers were dead, Clementine Bowdrie darted toward the undergrowth, the tail of her coonskin cap flying behind her. She had just fired the Sharps and resorted to her pistol. Someone took a shot at her so she responded in kind. Ducking under a leafy branch, she froze.
The night had gone strangely quiet all of a sudden. Clem listened but heard only the sigh of the wind. Tick and Clell were out there somewhere and she strained to locate them.
Also out there were killers who would gun her down if she were not careful. She could not afford a single mistake.
Clem had lost track of Boone Vasco in all the confusion. The last she’d seen, he had been dogging her footsteps. Now he had disappeared. She gazed back up the rocky approach to the canyon, fearing he had been slain. The very thought made her heart beat faster, made her mouth go dry.
Never in her wildest dreams had Clementine ever expected to meet a man she would desire. Never in her most vulnerable moments had she figured that one day she would want a man to want her. She had always been content being as she was. She had always been whole in and of herself. It was the shock of all shocks to learn she was just like any other woman who had ever lived. Like her mother and her grandmother and her great-grandmother and every last female who had ever born the name of Bowdrie, in her heart of hearts she yearned for a husband and a family and maybe a nice place to call their very own. It was—
The rustle of a body through the chaparral reminded Clem that this was not the time to be pondering her fate. It rattled her to think that she would let down her guard at that most crucial of moments. What was happening to her?
The rustle was repeated. Clementine extended her revolver even though she could see no one. Faintly to her ears came whispering. Shadows separated themselves from other shadows and flitted among the mazanitas. It seemed as if they were moving away from her but Clem did not move from her hiding place. Her intuition told her the time was not yet ripe. Then the shadows blended into the dark.
Again Clem sought some sign of the lean gunman from Kentucky but she was unable to see a trace of him. Her heart wrestled with her head. Part of her wanted to go back out among the boulders to find him. Another part of her warned that doing so was a virtual death wish. The bushwhackers were bound to spot her.
Which brought up an important point Clem had not considered until that moment. Who were their attackers? Her first thought had been that they were Injuns, but these men fought like no Injuns she had ever gone up against. Injuns made a lot of noise when they battled, whopping and hollering loud enough to raise th
e dead. These men fought without making a peep.
Minutes pregnant with tension dragged by. Fueled by her worry for Vasco, Clem grew impatient. She had not seen or heard anyone in quite some time. That might mean they’d had enough and gone elsewhere.
As fluidly as a she cat, Clementine stood and moved deeper into the vegetation. Her pa had shown her how to place her feet down loosely and lightly so that she did not make any noise. He had also taught her how to use terrain to her advantage. There wasn’t an animal in Possum Hollow, wild or tame, that she couldn’t sneak up on if she had half a mind to.
Injuns weren’t animals, though. They were smarter than the smartest fox, deadlier than the biggest rattler. Combined with those traits was their uncanny wilderness savvy. As some of the old timers liked to say, Injuns had eyes in the backs of their heads and four ears instead of two.
Clem drew up short on seeing a body. Casting her eyes to both sides, she checked to see if enemies lurked in the vicinity before she stalked to the corpse to examine it. She expected to find a bronzed warrior. The sight of a cavalryman lying in a puddle of blood, his face contorted in a gruesome death mask, was such a jolt that she inadvertently gasped.
It couldn’t be! Clem’s mind shrieked. Setting down the Sharps, she ran her hand over the uniform, then inspected the face more closely. Sometimes Apaches and other Injuns dressed in the clothes of slain troopers. Yet there could be no doubt. This man was white.
A horrible thought intruded itself. Had they stumbled onto a cavalry patrol which had mistaken them for Injuns? The Army would not take kindly to having its own slain, no matter what the provocation. They were in a heap of trouble.
Stunned, Clem rose and moved on. Her thoughts were all scrambled and she could not decide what to do next. But her bewilderment was as nothing compared to that which she felt when she nearly tripped over another body and looked down at her feet to discover Clell’s lifeless countenance staring back up at her.
“No!” Clem breathed, falling onto her knees by her brother’s side. She took his hand in hers. “Please, no!”
Five pair of ears heard her outcry. Four of them belonged to the surviving soldiers who were a dozen yards to the north. As one, they wheeled and made for the sound, their carbines cocked.
The last pair of ears were those of Boone Vasco. The gunman had been desperately searching for Clem since losing sight of her when she dashed into the brush. Her cry was a beacon which drew him on the run. He knew that he should move quietly, but he didn’t care. He wanted to reach her side.
The next second Vasco raced around a manzanita and came on Clementine bent over Clell’s body. Her hands were clamped on his shirt and she was being racked by great sobs.
Simultaneously, beyond her, four men appeared. Vasco could see them clearly. He identified them as cavalrymen. He knew that a terrible mistake had been made and that he should not lift a finger against them.
But the quartet were bringing their carbines to bear on the distaff Bowdrie. It should have been obvious to them by her empty hands and the sound of her crying that she posed no threat to them. If they noticed, they took no heed. The muzzles of their guns leveled.
“Look out!” Vasco shouted, and let go of his Winchester. His right hand swooped to the nickel-plated Colt faster than he had ever drawn before or would likely ever draw again. It was a once in a lifetime draw, so perfect, so quick, that he had the gun out and had banged off two shots before his own brain realized he had done it.
Two of the troopers toppled but the other two opened fire, one of them at the gunman, the other at Clementine.
“No!” Vasco roared as he fired twice more, his shots so swift that they were like one. The soldiers fell, each cored through the head. Vasco stared, amazed at his own ability, and slowly started to straighten. Then he trembled as the blood in his veins changed to ice.
Clementine Bowdrie was sprawled across her brother.
Twelve
White Apache was nearing the north end of the canyon when the gunfire erupted. He did not know what to make of it. Nor did he have any time to mull over what it might mean. Seconds later, as he goaded the flagging roan up a short incline, the cavalry mount’s bad leg gave out and the horse stopped dead in its tracks and would not go another foot. He slapped his moccasins against its sides. He whipped the reins. The animal refused to budge.
Sliding to the ground, White Apache turned. There had been no sign of the scout since that first glimpse, yet he was sure the warrior was still back there somewhere, and close.
White Apache darted into the manzanitas and crouched. It struck him that the useless horse might be of benefit after all. He could use it as bait. Flattening, he poked the barrel of the Winchester through the limbs so that it was trained on the animal, and waited.
The scout was bound to investigate. White Apache figured he might get at least one clear shot, which was all he needed.
Meanwhile the gunfire continued to rock the canyon, echoing off the cliffs to the north. It sounded as if a full-fledged battle were being fought.
Now that White Apache had a moment to think, a troubling prospect occurred to him. He reasoned that the patrol must be involved, and if the troopers had engaged enemies, those enemies had to be Indians. And since they were outside the boundary of the Chiricahua Reservation, the only Indians likely to be abroad in that region were renegades. Perhaps even his friends, Delgadito and the other members of the band.
White Apache wrestled with an urge to retrace his steps and go see. In doing so he might walk right into the scout’s sights. It made more sense for him to dispose of the warrior first, then determine if Delgadito and the other Chiricahuas were involved. There was little he could do to help them, in any event. By the time he got there the battle was bound to be over.
The steady din of rifle and pistol shots made hearing anything else difficult. White Apache had to rely on his eyes more than his ears to locate the scout. He roved them from side to side, seeking any hint of movement. There would not be much warning. Apaches were like ghosts when they wanted to be.
It was then he noticed the wind had changed. That often happened at night, especially higher up in the mountains. Where before the breeze had been blowing from the northwest to the southeast, it now blew from east to west, carrying his scent back toward the knoll. Normally that would not matter. But some Apaches had such a keen sense of smell that they could sniff a man out if they were downwind of him.
White Apache shifted as an uneasy feeling took hold. He felt that he was being watched but he could see no one. He tried telling himself that his nerves were to blame, that the thought of the scout catching his scent had rattled him, but deep down he knew better. The Apache had found him.
Rolling quickly to the left, White Apache surged to his feet and ducked behind a bush. From there he circled wide to the south, stopping frequently to scour the chaparral. The Apache did not appear but he wasn’t fooled. The warrior was waiting for just the right moment to strike.
It was unnerving to stalk through the shadowy manzanita, never knowing when the crack of a rifle might be the last sound he ever heard. A whisper of motion made White Apache bring up the Winchester but the scout did not materialize. Frustrated, he went on.
White Apache had no idea which tribe the warrior belonged to. Mescaleros, Jicarillas, White Mountain Apaches, Cibeques, and even Chiricahuas worked as scouts, a practice the Army encouraged since the day it had dawned on desk-bound commanders in Washington D.C. that the best way to catch an Apache was with another Apache.
Since warriors had only two ways of reclaiming the freedom they had lost, either by becoming a scout or turning renegade, it wasn’t surprising that so many of them swallowed their pride and agreed to work for the Army. It was the only outlet open to them which would not result in their being hunted down like animals.
White Apache did not hold it against them, although Delgadito did. The renegade leader despised any Apache who sided with the conquerors of their people.
/> Rounding a bush, White Apache discovered an arroyo in front of him, running from south to north. He stepped to the rim. It did not contain water and was only four-feet deep. Jumping down, he bore to the right.
As he recollected, earlier he had crossed the arroyo about a hundred yards to the north at a point where the banks had buckled. From there he would be able to see the horse as well as his back trail and have a clear view of the chaparral on both sides.
White Apache abruptly stopped and cocked his head. The shooting had stopped and he had not even realized it. Now he could hear the sigh of the wind, but nothing else.
Keeping his head below the rim, White Apache crept past a bend. Ahead was the spot where he had crossed with the gelding. He took a few more steps, then crouched, puzzled by what appeared to be a post in the very middle of the arroyo, about twenty feet ahead. He peered at it closely. It stood three feet high and was as thin as a rail.
Cautiously, White Apache went on. Whatever that thing was, it shouldn’t be there. Flash floods had long since swept any and all vegetation from the bottom of the arroyo. There weren’t even any boulders or rocks.
When about three strides away, recognition caused White Apache to halt in surprise. It was a rifle! It was a Winchester like his own! Someone had wedged the stock into the soft soil so that the gun stood upright. In and of itself, the act seemed without rhyme or reason. But White Apache was not so easily deceived. There was only one person who could have done it, and one reason why that person had.
White Apache glanced to the right and left. He saw clumps of dirt at the bottom of the west bank and started to pivot but he was already too late. The bank exploded in a shower of earth. A knife glinted in the starlight as the scout rammed into him and drove him against the other side.
White Apache 8 Page 13