Clay’s Winchester was sent flying. He grabbed for the warrior’s knife arm but he could not get a grip. He winced as the knife dug a groove in his left side. The blade glanced off a rib, then thudded into the bank.
Seizing the scout’s wrist, White Apache held fast even as he arced his knee at the warrior’s groin. The man was a canny fighter; a quick twist was all he needed to deflect the knee with his hip.
Propping a foot behind him, White Apache pushed off the bank toward the middle where he would have room to maneuver. A fist caught him low in the stomach, nearly doubling him over. Apaches were not fist fighters, so clearly this one had learned a trick or two from the whites he worked with.
White Apache forked a foot behind the other’s leg and shoved, seeking to unbalance his foe. But the scout gave a little hop, twisted, and hooked his own foot behind White Apache. Before White Apache could brace himself he was flat on his back with the warrior’s knee on his chest and that knife inching steadily lower toward his jugular. Sweeping his left hand up, he held the other’s arm at bay with both hands.
Antonio’s features were contorted in feral savagery. He was going to kill this white-eye or die trying. Bloodlust caused temples to pound, his veins to bulge. He was in the grip of a killing frenzy the likes of which he had only experienced once before, many years ago during a battle with Mexican soldados when his band had been trapped in a box canyon and been forced to fight their way out against overwhelming odds. That had been a glorious day, perhaps the single best day of his life. He had slain eleven Nakai-yes, four of them with his bare hands.
Now Antonio would slay the white-eye no one else could kill. Many had tried, he knew. The Army, fellow scouts, bounty hunters, lawmen, they all had failed. The glory would go to him and him alone.
Wrenching his knife arm to one side, Antonio nearly freed it. But the white-eye clung on. He had to compel Taggart to let go, so he lunged and closed his left hand on the white man’s throat.
Clay jerked his neck to the right, hoping to break loose, and could not. Frantic, he bucked upward, striving to throw the scout off, without success. The warrior was a weathered veteran of more combat than Clay had ever seen. The scout knew every trick there was and anticipated his every move.
Brute force was the last resort. Whipping his body from side to side, White Apache exerted every iota of strength he had and pushed the blade back a few inches. It was not much but it would have to do.
The fingers on White Apache’s neck had closed off his air and his lungs were close to bursting. He must do something, and soon, or he would pass out.
White Apache dared not let go of the warrior’s arm, though, or that knife would slice into him. He knew it and the warrior knew it, and he knew that the warrior knew it. It was the very last thing the Apache would expect. So that was exactly what he did.
Swooping his left hand to the ground at his side, White Apache scooped up a palmful of dirt even as the Bowie dipped toward him. In a twinkling he had hurled the dirt into the scout’s eyes. As he did, he flipped to the left. It wasn’t enough to dislodge the scout but it was enough to make the knife miss his neck by a hair and sink into the ground instead.
Antonio cried out, a gravely snarl of rage. The dirt stung terribly, blinding him, filling his eyes with tears. He tried to stab the white-eye anyway and felt the knife spear into the soil. His left hand was torn from the white man’s throat. Realizing that he was vulnerable, he threw himself backward and rose, furiously wiping at his eyes.
White Apache drew his own Bowie as he stood. He could have drawn his Colt. Or he could have picked up his Winchester. But he knew enough of Apache ways to know that the scout held a personal grudge against him. There was no other explanation for the warrior attacking him with a knife when the man could just as easily have shot him from ambush. Which was fine with him. If it was personal, so be it. He would give as good as he got.
Antonio back-pedaled while blinking his eyes. He did not understand why the white-eye had not finished him off. Suddenly his vision cleared enough for him to see Taggart standing there with a knife in hand. Understanding brought a grim smile to his lips. So! This white-eye was more Apache than Antonio had given him credit for being. In his own tongue, he said, “You will soon be dead, man of pale skin. But I kill you with respect, for of all the whites I have ever met, you are the only one worthy of it.”
The words were lost on Clay. He did not speak the Jicarilla language. The smile, a rarity among Apaches, conveyed more than the words ever could. He smiled back, just as somberly, then had to parry a thrust as the warrior skipped in close with lightning speed.
Apaches were masters at knife fighting. It was yet another of the many skills they learned at an early age. Antonio was typical. He had defeated a score of adversaries with a blade, some of them fellow warriors slain after a formal challenge. His skill was exceptional,, and he brought every bit of it to bear against the renegade.
Several Chiricahua warriors had instructed White Apache in how to use a knife. He had learned much but in no regard was he the equal of an Apache. In this instance he barely countered another swing, then retreated under a fierce onslaught. The two blades rang together time and again. Unexpectedly he backed into the bank and had to leap to the right as the scout speared at his chest.
In ducking under a backhand slash that would have taken his head off, White Apache tripped. He stumbled and nearly fell. The warrior seized the moment and lanced the knife toward his shoulder. Again White Apache threw himself aside but this time he was not quite fast enough and suffered a three-inch cut that flared his arm with torment and caused blood to flow freely.
Antonio, assuming that his adversary was weakening, attacked with renewed vigor. He cut low, then high. Both were blocked. He drove the crimson tip at White Apache’s chest. When the renegade skipped aside, he pivoted and tried to rip the blade into the man’s stomach. Once more he narrowly missed.
White Apache was mere heartbeats away from eternity. He countered, parried, spun and dodged a blow which would have cleaved his head from hair to chin. The scout did not give him a moment’s respite. He had to leap rearward or be gutted like a fish.
A frown curled the Jicarilla’s thin lips. It was taking much longer than it should have. The White Apache was every bit a worthy opponent.
The Bowie whistled at White Apache’s face. A pang shot up his arm as he met the knife with his own. For several moments they were locked together, nose to nose, both of them panting and grunting as they tried to knock the other down. They turned first to the right, then to the left. Neither enjoyed an edge.
Then Antonio resorted to a ruse learned long ago. He pretended to weaken. He bent backward, causing White Apache to lean forward to keep the pressure on his knife. And at the very instant when the white-eye started to lean, Antonio whirled to the left.
White Apache was caught off guard. He stumbled forward. His left foot twisted in a rut and he fell. By throwing out his right arm he kept from landing on his stomach. But in a rush of insight he realized that his back was exposed, realized that was exactly what the Apache had planned, and realized that in another moment the warrior would bury the Bowie in him and that would be the end of it.
Blocking or evading the thrust was impossible. Yet as White Apache smacked down onto his hands and knees, he happened to glance-between his legs and see the scout’s feet. He saw the warrior’s right moccasin lift and move toward him as the man stepped in for the killing stroke. Without thinking, acting on pure reflex, White Apache slammed his own right foot to the rear, into the scout’s shin. He must have caught the Apache at just the right moment because the warrior lost his balance and toppled.
Whirling and rising, White Apache firmed his grip on the knife hilt and streaked the blade at the man’s throat. If his foe had been a white man, the clash would have been over right then. But the Apache was just too quick. Clay’s knife nicked the side of the warrior’s neck, that was all.
In a lithe bound Antonio regained his footing.
He did not let on, but he was rattled by his narrow escape. In all his years, in all the fights he had been in, no one had ever come so close to rubbing him out. No one had ever given him so much trouble as this white-eye.
Antonio was beginning to see why this man had become the scourge of the territory. He was beginning to appreciate why no one had been able to kill or capture him. Clay Taggart had a natural knack for dealing death that few men, white or red, could boast of. Taggart was a born killer, as the whites would say. Yet from the fleeting hesitation Taggart showed at times, Antonio doubted the white-eye knew how formidable he truly was.
Clay Taggart was not feeling very formidable. In fact, he was feeling hopelessly outclassed. He had tried everything he could think of and nothing had worked. He had barely stayed one step ahead of the scout the whole fight. To his way of thinking it was just a matter of time before the inevitable took place. His only regret was that he would never get to take his revenge on Miles Gillett.
The very next instant, Clay stepped onto some loose dirt and his foot shot out from under him. He tried to regain his balance but it was a lost cause. His back hit the west bank and he slid lower.
Antonio had the white-eye, at last! A bound brought him in front of the renegade. He snapped his knife on high and girded himself to plunge it down.
White Apache knew he had reached the end of his rope. He saw the knife pause at the apex of its swing and braced for the searing agony he was bound to endure when the blade sank to the hilt. Then, just when his death seemed certain, he was stunned to see the scout freeze, to see the Apache glance sharply up at the top of the bank.
A low, ominous growl sounded. Simultaneously, a squat, hairy form hurtled out of nowhere and rammed the Apache squarely in the chest. Both went down in a flurry of snapping jaws and rending claws. The warrior’s knife arm straightened but the blow never landed. Those steely jaws clamped down. The crunch of bone was loud and crisp.
White Apache gawked, too astonished to move or stand. He did not know where the animal came from, or even what it was. In bewildered fascination he watched as the beast’s teeth hooked into the Apache’s side and tore the skin open from below the shoulder to the waist. How the warrior kept from crying out, White Apache would never know.
The scout made a valiant effort to stand. He shoved the animal from him and was halfway erect when the brute leaped. The same jaws which had shattered bone now clamped onto the base of his throat. With an almost casual toss of its shaggy head, the wolfish creature ripped the neck open.
Spurting a scarlet geyser, Antonio tottered to the rear. Strangely, the beast made no move to close in. It stood and stared as his lifeblood soaked his uniform shirt and pants and darkened the dirt underfoot. He saw it glance at the White Apache but make no move to harm him, leading Antonio to conclude that the two were in league somehow, that the beast had come to the rescue of the man. It filled him with amazement. Truly the White Apache possessed powerful medicine if so powerful a brute did his bidding. In a way it made Antonio feel less bitter. He had been defeated, but not by any ordinary man. It had taken a white witch with the power of a Gans.
Weakness came over Antonio, weakness such as he had never known. His legs gave way and he melted to the ground. His final sight was of the wolfish creature grinning at him.
Clay Taggart’s skin pricked as if to a thousand needles when the wolf-dog suddenly swung toward him. He realized that he should have stood while he had the chance because now his face and his throat were at the same height as the beast’s head and jaws. He thought of trying to stab it but elected to let it make the first move.
The creature took a step toward him, then stopped to raise its muzzle and sniff loudly. Again and again it inhaled, turning its head from side to side.
Clay had the impression that the beast did not know what to make of him. Perhaps because he dressed like an Indian but smelled like a white man, it was confused. He made no hostile moves as it edged nearer, still sniffing. Its black, twitching nose was mere inches from his leg when it unexpectedly whined and coiled to spring. He tensed, thinking it was about to attack. Instead, the creature leaped clear over him to the rim of the bank and was gone.
White Apache leaped up. The wolf-dog had stopped a dozen feet away and looked back as if waiting to see what he would do. On an impulse, Clay retrieved his Winchester and scrambled up the side of the arroyo. The beast was already heading westward at an even lope. He followed it, pushing himself to keep it in sight. Soon it disappeared. He was about to stop and go back when he spotted flickering flames off through the chaparral.
On cat’s feet White Apache approached the campfire. Presently he halted behind a manzanita. He saw two people, a hawkish man who was oddly familiar and another with short blond hair who lay bundled in blankets, resting propped against a saddle. The hawkish man turned toward him and he noticed a pearl-handled Colt worn butt forward on the right hip. Suddenly he remembered. It was the gunman from the Triangle G. One of Gillett’s gunmen. His hand tightened on the Winchester.
From out of the brush to the east walked the wolf-dog. Neither of those at the fire showed any alarm. The blond one smiled weakly, while the gunman declared, “There you are, Razor. Where the devil have you been? What did you smell out there that you took off like that?”
The beast laid down beside the man under the blankets, who then spoke in a high-pitched voice. “What do we do now, my dearest?”
White Apache started. It took him a few seconds to recognize the speaker was a woman.
The gunman poured coffee from a pot into a tin cup and took it over. “Here. This will perk you up some. But I still want you to lie there until I say differently. A shoulder wound like yours can turn serious if it gets infected.”
“Whatever you say, darlin’,” the woman said with a joyous grin.
“Oh, hell,” the gunman said for some reason. Bending, he kissed her passionately. The embrace lingered on and on, and when they parted the woman leaned her head back and grinned dreamily.
“If I’d only known,” she said:
White Apache did not know what to make of her comment. He studied them, debating whether to do as his Chiricahua brothers would do and slay them both.
“Before you get all misty-eyed on me,” the gunman said, “we’d better decide what were going to do. It sure doesn’t make any sense to go on by ourselves, not with you wounded and all.” He shifted as if nervous and gave a little cough. “I’ve been thinking. It seems to me that we should forget this whole business and head for Kentucky. I still have a few friends back there. And I recollect this parcel of land that I’d like to get my hands on. It’s not much, but with hard work we can make something of it.”
“You’re forgettin’ one thing. What about Gillett? What about the five thousand he’s already paid?” The gunman’s grin was as sly as that of a fox. “I’m not forgetting anything. How do you reckon we’ll pay for the land?” He stroked her cheek. “The way I see it, he owes you. Five thousand doesn’t begin to make up for the loss of two brothers.”
“Gillett won’t see it that way. He’ll think we stole it from him.”
“Who the hell cares what he thinks?”
Clay Taggart saw the woman blink, then smile. They kissed again. Wearing a smile of his own, he melted back into the brush and headed eastward. He was not about to kill them. Anyone who would steal from Miles Gillett was no enemy of his.
Of the three near the fire, only one noticed the White Apache’s departure. It wasn’t the woman, who had found the love she had never known she was looking for, nor the gunman, who had found the answer to mending his shattered soul. No, it was the wolf dog, and Razor, of course, told no one.
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WHITE APACHE 8: THE TRACKERS
By David Robbins Writing as Jake McMasters
First Published by Leisure Books in 1995
Copyright © 1995, 2017 by David Robbins
First Smashwords Edition: July 2017
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Our cover features Last Chance, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.
Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri. Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book – Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
White Apache 8 Page 14