White Apache

by tiffy

  Her fingers tightened on his arm frantically. ʺIf I do, you must protect me from Raoul and his friends.ʺ Her face had gone from flushed red to the color of dirty parchment.

  ʺI will kill Raoul Castal and anyone else who is allied with him. Is that good enough for you?ʺ He shoved the gown at her again and she began to dress with clumsy, trembling fingers.

  As soon as the two dark figures emerged from the Doubert house which he now owned, Clark Jamison knew something was wrong. Quinn had Juliette with him, and she was acting quite differently than she had when they entered the place nearly an hour earlier. ʺSheʹs betraying Raoul as we planned, but she should not be with that damnable Spanish renegade.ʺ

  He pondered what to do. His orders from General Wilkinson were to see that Quinn did not upset their plans to discredit and silence the members of the Mexican Association. Castal was to be killed, for he could confirm the generalʹs involvement with the filibusters. Raoulʹs treacherous sister was to trick Quinn into doing the deed. Once Castal was eliminated, other means could be used to dispose of the renegade. Jamison watched his mistress climb into a closed carriage with Quinn. He decided to follow them.

  It took only a few blocks for him to realize that they were not headed toward the levee and the deserted riverfront warehouses. When they pulled into the first floor of the carriage house on Chartre Street where Quinn had been staying, Jamison knew they were not going after Castal. In moments they emerged, Quinn armed and mounted on a big bay stallion, Juliette with him, riding awkwardly astride a brown gelding.

  ʺSheʹs taking him to the Louvois woman!ʺ Jamisonʹs mistrust of Juliette had been justified. He wheeled his horse about in the narrow alley and rode through the cold, dark streets at breakneck speed, headed for the levee.

  The Louisiana back country

  Elise had been held for so long in the filthy, cold cabin that she had lost track of the time since she was captured. Stretching, she rose from the lumpy mattress and faced the sunrise. With any luck, this would be her last morning in the swamp.

  Since Castal had brought her to this hellish place, Gaspar Doubert had been her only white visitor. He was a weakling and a fool. She felt reasonably sure her plan would work.

  One of the Doubert slaves, an abused old woman who spoke no English, brought her food and emptied the slops, but only Gaspar had the keys to her manacle.

  Every few days he visited the isolated shack, which she learned had been occupied by slave catchers in years past. Doubert would unlock the manacle from the bed and allow her a brief walk around the outside of the cabin.

  Healthful exercise for her and her child he had called itas if he expected either to survive another fortnight!

  Gaspar was due for a visit. He did not ride, but walked through the densely overgrown swamp to the small clearing, leading her to believe that a large plantation must be somewhere nearby. When she was abducted, her captors had brought her here in the dead of night while only semi‐conscious. Would there be a clear path through the dangerous undergrowth that she could follow?

  The thought of being devoured by a black bear or poisoned by a cottonmouth held little appeal, but even that risk was better than waiting for Castal to give up on Quinn and come to kill her for his own sadistic pleasure.

  She had worked out a plan, if only she could accomplish it. ʹʹRemember, Doubert is a fool,ʺ she reminded herself, rehearsing the moves once more. Since she was with child, the Creole would be more likely to fall for her trick.

  Gaspar Doubert walked carefully along the twisting path from his plantation, his mind not registering the eerie beauty of the moss‐draped cypress where snowy egrets perched. ʺPlantation,ʺ he scoffed aloud in the silence of the swamp. Their family had been beggared by Ramonʹs recklessness. Now his brotherʹs widow heaped scandal on their old and honored name by consorting with Americans.

  Ramon had fought a duel over her honor. ʺHonor! Pah, Juliette does not know the meaning of the word. And I am forced to take the abuse of her arrogant brother Raoul.ʺ

  As he approached the cabin, Doubert worried about his captive. Elise Louvois was the wife of a diplomat from the French emperorʹs court. Castalʹs fanatic hatred might end up getting them all arrestedover some long‐ago vendetta caused by that worthless chit Juliette.

  Elise heard him lift the door latch. Everything was in place. When he entered, she motioned to the bowl on the crude bedside table and said, ʺThank God you are here, sir! I think there was something tainted in the stew. I have grown most grievously ill.ʺ She doubled over on the edge of the bed where she was manacled by one long chain and clutched her belly for dramatic effect. ʺThe slop pail, please! I do not wish to soil myself, and I cannot reach it!ʺ She began to heave and gasp as if preparing to lose her dinner.

  Doubert quickly seized the slop pail from the corner and knelt, placing it between her knees. Just as he did so, she seized the heavy crockery bowl from the table with her free arm and smacked him on the side of his temple with all her strength. He jerked backward, caught in an awkward position on one knee.

  Before he could clear his dazed head, Elise had the tin slop pail in both hands.

  She sent it crashing onto the top of his skull.

  As he sprawled on the floor, out cold, she searched his pockets for the key to her manacle, muttering, ʺYou are fortunate this was the day the servant emptied the pail, else you would awaken enveloped in more than just a headache!ʺ

  Within a minute, she was free and Doubert was confined with his own manacle to the massive wooden bedpost. His pistol was in her possession, as was the key, which she threw into the weeds on her way out.

  There were several paths into the swamp, but the ground was soft from a late night rain and the prints of his boots were not difficult to backtrack over the path he had just walked. After following the labyrinth for nearly a half hour, she understood why he did not ride to the shack. No horse could negotiate such a treacherous path. She clutched his pistol, ready to fire it at any of the rustling things in the undergrowth that dared accost her. Nothing did.

  By the time she came upon the plantation house, her cloak and dress, already rank from weeks of sleeping in them, were mud‐stained and soaked. The day was chilly, but in her terror, Eliseʹs back was sweat‐soaked, her hair clinging to it limply.

  The two‐story house was badly run down, dwarfed by huge live oaks smothered in moss that trailed in wispy tendrils along weed‐infested grounds. Its whitewashed boards had faded, and several planks on the broad front porch were rotted through. Once it had been grand, but now two elderly black men raked listlessly as the wind sent the leaves scampering ahead of their feeble reach.

  Surely Doubert had left his horse somewhere on this godforsaken place. She skirted the grounds until she found the dilapidated stable, then began to creep through a sadly neglected topiary garden toward it.

  Elise hoped the stables would be empty, but when she peeked in the door she saw a stocky man carrying a wicked‐looking riding crop. His dark hair was greasy, and one crooked tooth protruded obscenely from between his tightly clamped lips, rather like a boar tusk in an equally unattractive face. He was inspecting a good‐looking gray gelding that shied nervously, covering the sounds of her approach.

  Not wanting to rouse anyone by firing the pistol, she slid it into her pocket and seized a shovel that leaned against the cluttered wall. Old Boar Tusk must have sensed her presence, for he started to turn just as she swung. Instead of coshing him in the temple as she had Doubert, the flat of the shovel mashed with a sickening crunch into his nose. He crumpled without a sound as blood gushed down his filthy shirt front.

  The gelding was saddled, no doubt Gaspar Doubertʹs mount. ʺYou look to be the only decent piece of horseflesh on the place. That should give me a better chance of eluding pursuers.ʺ She calmed the gray and led him away from the blood scent of the unconscious man. Once she had cleared the grounds and found the main road, Elise mounted awkwardly, grateful for the manʹs saddle which allowed her a su
rer seat. Assuming she had been taken farther north of the city, she rode in what she hoped was a southerly direction. With any luck, by nightfall she would be able to report to Governor Claiborne and be reunited with Samuel.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Louisiana back country

  Burke Runcie was furious. Not only had that damnable female made a fool of him, she had smashed his nose so badly that he doubted he would ever breathe through it again! He sat at the table in the shabby kitchen, holding a cold wet compress of yellowed linens to his face in a vain attempt to ease the painful swelling.

  ʺDat be bettah, Massah Burke?ʺ Odine asked as she soaked another length of toweling in cold well water.

  Runcie pulled the used towel from his face and it caught on the corner of his protruding tooth. He yanked it free with an oath and took the fresh cloth from Odine. ʺAinʹt ye got nothinʹ better fer a broken nose than cold towels?ʺ The ancient black crone shrugged her bony shoulders and began to soak the bloody cloth he shoved at her in the cold water. ʺNose broke good. Be bettah when daʹ

  swellinʹ go down.ʺ

  The sound of horses pounding up to the front porch interrupted his reply. ʺWhat the hellʺ

  Odineʹs feeble protests were drowned out by a sharp female voice speaking rapidly in French. Then the argument grew louder as footfalls quickly sounded up the hall. The kitchen door swung open and Madame Doubert entered, followed by a hardlooking man with the coldest green eyes Runcie bad ever seen. He held a Hawkins pistol in one hand and had the ladyʹs arm in a firm grip with the other.

  ʺWe have come for the American woman,ʺ she said coldly in heavily accented English, a language she detested but had been forced to learn.

  ʺShe ainʹt here,ʺ Runcie replied curtly. He had worked for Ramon, then Gaspar Doubert when his elder brother was killed, but had never liked either of the foppish Creoles or the dead brotherʹs imperious wife.

  Santiago studied the overseerʹs smashed face. ʺDid she do that?ʺ If he has killed her he forced his mind to block such an unbearable thought.

  Runcie nodded, then elaborated as the hair on the back of his neck prickled in warning. The big man was vitally concerned with the Louvois bitch. ʺShe come up on me in the stable. Used a shovel on my face. Knocked me out good. Stole a horse and rode off. I got no idea where,ʺ he added hastily, throwing his hands up in the air when the strangerʹs eyes cut through him with cold fury. ʺI swear it!ʺ

  ʺYou told me this place belonged to your brother‐in‐law,ʺ Santiago said to Juliette. ʺWhere is he?ʺ

  A nasty smile revealed Runcieʹs grotesquely malformed teeth. ʺYer woman left him in the cabin where heʹd kept herused the same manacle on him heʹd used on her. Throwed away the key. Had to saw the bedpost clean in two to get him outta there. Heʹs gone to the smith upriver to have the chain cut off.ʺ

  Damn Eliseʹs resourcefulness! If only she had not escaped. The thought of her, great with child, riding madly across the treacherous bayous made his blood run cold. He looked from Juliette to the overseer and asked, ʺIs there any way back to New Orleans but over the trail we traversed?ʺ

  Just as Runcie was about to reply, the sound of hoofbeats again broke the winter stillness of the isolated plantation.

  ʺGaspar!ʺ Juliette cried as she twisted free of Santiagoʹs grip in time to avoid the barreling force of Runcieʹs body as he lunged at Quinn, knocking the gun from his hand.

  The two men went down, with the thickset overseer on top of his slimmer opponent. Juliette saw the pistol Santiago had lost slide across the rotting floorboards into a corner beneath a table. The men fought with savage ferocity, both trying to seize the second pistol from Quinnʹs sash. Juliette edged her way around the cluttered kitchen toward the weapon Quinn had lost when Runcie hit him.

  ʺGaspar! In the winter kitchen!ʺ she screamed, nearing the table. Just then, a sound like the squeal of a hog being butchered rent the air. Quinnʹs elbow smashed into Runcieʹs broken nose. When the overseer released his hold on Quinnʹs pistol, Santiago pressed the gun against the overseerʹs chest and pulled the trigger. Burke Runcieʹs last thought was of the agony of his nose. He never even felt the bullet that ended his life.

  Gaspar Doubert saw his dead overseer and the blood‐covered stranger who had just killed him. He cocked his pistol without noticing the crouched figure of his sister‐in‐law, who was aiming a weapon at Santiago. As Quinn moved away from the dead overseer, he caught sight of the figure in the kitchen door drawing a gun. He plunged to his knees, searching for his second pistol.

  Just as she squeezed the trigger, the renegade moved out of Julietteʹs line of fire.

  The bullet meant for him lodged squarely in a very surprised Gaspar Doubertʹs heart. Doubertʹs weapon dropped from his fingers as he fell against the door frame, stone cold dead.

  In a split second, Quinn had slid his knife from its sheath, ready to use if any more intruders materialized. ʺIt would seem you are a swifter shot than your brother‐in‐law, Julie.ʺ He stepped over Runcieʹs body and crossed the floor to take his spent weapon from the stunned woman.

  She looked up at him with desperation in her eyes. ʺSantiago, I did not meanʺ

  ʺI know. You meant to kill me.ʺ He gave her a wintery smile as he tucked both pistols in his sash and led her to the crude chair on which Runcie had been sitting.

  She sank onto the seat, her soft white hands plucking at his buckskin coat sleeve.

  ʺPleaseyou cannot turn me over to Governor Claiborne. He is our bitter foe.ʺ She began to weep, letting crystalline teardrops spill down her pale cheeks. ʺI could not endure prison. I have friendspowerful friends. If you free me, they will help you. Soon the Spanish yoke you have always hated will be overthrown across the West.ʺ

  He arched his eyebrows in cynical disgust. ʺMore intrigues? Frankly, I care nothing at all for who rules New Spain. All rulers are ultimately alike and all use their power to enslave those weaker than they are.ʺ He quickly extracted a length of thin rawhide from his jacket pocket as he spoke and tied her hands behind her, securing them to the sturdy chair. When he shoved the massive table firmly against her waist, pinning her between the wall and the table, he said, ʺThat should hold you until I can summon someone to take you to Claibornewho, incidentally, is a far more decent sort than you could ever comprehend, Juliette.ʺ

  Her cries and pleas, alternating with oaths, echoed in his ears as he quit the room and began to search for some of the house servants, who he knew were hiding in terror. Finally, an old crone with her iron‐gray hair tied in a scraggly knot materialized in the hall.

  ʺI be Odine, de cook,ʺ she said, studying him warily.

  It was obvious what sort of masters the Douberts had been. If the lash scars on the pitiful old field slaves he had seen were any indication, no one would rush to Juliette Doubertʹs aid. ʺI am Santiago Quinn, a representative of the American governor in New Orleans,ʺ he said in his most precise, unaccented English. ʺYour former mistress, her brother‐in‐law, and the overseer are wanted by Governor Claiborne. Do you have a strong young man I can trust to ride with a message for the governor?ʺ

  ʺAll de younguns, de be sold long time,ʺ she said in a flat, resigned voice. ʺGot ole Jacob. He kin ride, I reckon.ʺ

  ʺFetch him while I write the message,ʺ he said, cursing every wasted moment Elise was lost in this barren swamp country.

  In moments, he had composed a terse note to Claiborne explaining about the two dead men and Julietteʹs involvement in the conspiracy with Raoul, who was still at large in the city. Hopefully, the governor could locate and arrest him before General Wilkinson even learned about the debacle. If Castal would not implicate Wilkinson in the conspiracy with the Mexican Association, he felt certain Juliette would do anything to save her own neck.

  He thrust the note into Jacobʹs hands and explained patiently the directions to the governorʹs residence on Old Levee and Toulouse streets. ʺJust ask for Governor Claiborneʹs house and then tell his guards that you have come from Santiago Qu
inn.ʺ

  Although old and frail, a keen light of intelligence burned in the manʹs rheumy eyes. ʺI give dis ta nobody but de govnah, Massah Quinn.ʺ

  ʺWhat yo wants ta do wid dem two dead men?ʺ Odine asked.

  ʺHave some of your men haul them out back until the governorʹs soldiers arrive.

  Under no circumstances release Madame Doubert.ʺ

  She nodded, and for the first time Santiago thought he saw a flash of emotion on her weathered face. Satisfaction? Vengeance? Perhaps just simple justice.

  Santiago gave Jacob Julietteʹs horse. The two men rode to the end of the overgrown trail and onto the main road, where they parted ways. If Elise had ridden off and not passed him on the way to New Orleans, she must have headed in the opposite direction, up the trail into the savage wilderness. He spurred True Blood into as swift a pace as they could safely maintain. The trail was tortuous, overgrown with brush and vines.

  Before leaving, he had reloaded his pistols. He carried the brace in his sash, along with his knife and the rifle in his saddle scabbard. Please, let me find her! He paused periodically, checking the ground for any indication that she had come this way, and was encouraged to find a sign. Jacob had told him the horse she stole, which was Gaspar Doubertʹs favorite, had a ʹʹDʺ engraved on the front shoe. Several times within the first hour, he saw the special print in muddy patches along the trail.

  The danger lay in the various cutoffs leading to other isolated plantations and squattersʹ cabins in this impoverished area. Just thinking of Elise at the mercy of a band of vicious Kaintucks, as the Creoles called the crude American backwoodsmen, made his blood run cold. How long would it be before she realized that she was headed in the wrong direction?

  Then he thought about the overseerʹs smashed nose and Gaspar Doubert manacled in his own slave catcherʹs cabin, and he smiled grimly. His clever woman would not run out of luck.

  Jacob rounded a sharp turn on the trail and nearly collided with the white men thundering toward him. There was no way to hide. Although Quinn had offered him a gun, the slave refused it, for according to the Louisiana Black Code, to be caught carrying a weapon was a whipping offense.