White Apache 7

by David Robbins

  “Let’s go on in and I’ll whip you up some vittles,” Cody proposed. “I could go for a plate or two myself. I don’t eat as regular as I should, being alone and all. Most of the time I just skin me a rattler and make a right fine stew.”

  The thought of eating a snake made Tim squeamish. He’d done so before and never liked it. Each time he’d dipped his spoon in the bowl, he kept expecting the rattler’s head to lunge out and bite him. “Is that what we’ll be having?”

  “No. I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for some venison. I dropped a buck a couple of days ago and I don’t think the meat is all rotten yet.” Cody rose. “Don’t forget to bring your chair in.”

  Tim smiled gamely and followed the older man. He said nothing, but he never had understood how his grandfather could live in such a hovel. Dust constantly blew in through cracks in the walls and the roof forever leaked when it rained. A small bench lined the east wall, a table with one leg shorter than the rest sat in the middle of the single room, and a dilapidated cot completed the collection of so-called furniture.

  Brushing dust from the edge of the table so it wouldn’t smear his shirt, Tim plunked down the chair and straddled it. “If pa ever saw how messy you keep your cabin, he’d cuss you a blue streak for being so lazy.”

  Cody had found the pan he wanted and placed it on the stove. “That’s your grandma’s fault. She spoiled that boy when he was young. Twice a week she’d do laundry just so he could wear a clean pair of underwear and socks every day. Every single day!” He paused, recalling how lovely his wife had looked with her sandy hair up in a bun and beads of sweat on her forehead. Now there had been a woman! “If you ask me, she spoiled your pa. I told her that it wasn’t natural for a boy to have to change his underwear more than once a month, but she wouldn’t listen. That’s what an Eastern upbringing does to a person. Makes them so damned fussy, they take to thinkin’ they should smell like lilacs all the time.”

  From a shelf Cody took a bag of flour and partially filled a bowl, then added water from his water skin.

  “The fact is, boy, if the Good Lord had meant for us to smell like flowers, we’d have petals for hair. And if we were supposed to walk around as clean as a new rifle, the Good Lord would never have made dirt.”

  “You have a strange way of looking at fife, Gramps,” Tim commented. But it had always been thus. His earliest recollection of his grandfather was the evening Wes rode into town with three dead Apaches draped over pack horses. It had been his pa’s birthday. That very morning a band of Mescaleros had been caught raiding a ranch by a patrol and been wiped out. On the spur of the moment Wes had decided to give a brand new scalp as a present. His pa got to pick the head of hair he liked the most on the three dead warriors.

  Looking at his grandpa now, Tim found it hard to believe that once Wes Cody had been a name to be reckoned with. The old man had been the best scout alive, better than Kit Carson ever was according to old-timers who knew. Wes had killed scores of renegades and a few outlaws, to boot.

  “No one ever said we all have to look at life the exact same way, boy. Find the way that’s best for you and live like there will be no tomorrow. That’s the secret to havin’ no regrets.”

  “Oh? Do you have any regrets, other than pa, that is?”

  Cody pursed his lips. “‘Well, now that you bring it up, I reckon there were a few things I’d change if I could go back and live my life all over again.” He stirred the flour with a big wooden spoon. “But that’s wishful thinkin’, which is just a fancy name for moanin’ and groanin’ over the way things could have been.”

  For a while Tim was silent. The tantalizing aroma of brewing coffee filled the cabin, mingled with the delicious odor of the biscuits and thick steaks. “It’s too bad you’ve given up scouting,” he said at last. “I bet you’d bring the traitor to bay in no time.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Cody said. “He’s a smart one. Quick Killer was no daisy. It might take a spell, but yes, I’d nail his hide to the wall.”

  Tim took a deep breath. “Maybe you should, then.”

  “What?” Cody asked absently while checking the steaks.

  “Go after the band,” Tim said, and averted his gaze when his grandfather gave him the sort of look one might give a crazed Comanche. “Think of it, Gramps. Dozens of innocent people have lost their lives already, and there’s no telling how many more will go to meet their Maker before this hombre is caught or killed.”

  Cody was surprised by the suggestion. He hadn’t tracked a man in so long, he was as rusty as could be. But he was also intrigued by the idea of getting off his backside and doing something worthwhile for a change. “I couldn’t,” he said lamely. “For one thing, I’m too damn old. My joints ache all the time, and I’m not as spry as I used to be.”

  Tim was prepared for any and every argument. “A little exercise is all you need. Once you’re out and around, it will all come back to you.”

  “Maybe.” Cody turned a biscuit over to keep it from burning. “Even so, I couldn’t do it alone, not even when I was in my prime. I’d need help. And there isn’t a man alive fool enough to throw in with me for a proposition like that.”

  “I’d go.”

  Cody smiled. “I appreciate the offer, son. I really do. But totin’ a six-shooter and wearin’ those high-heeled boots and that John B. doesn’t make you an Injun fighter. It takes a special knack.”

  “I could learn,” Tim pressed.

  “Given time,” Cody agreed, “which the renegades aren’t about to give you. No, I’d need a couple of men who would do to ride the river with.”

  Trying not to become too excited, Tim played his ace in the hole. “How about Iron Eyes? He’d leap at the chance to help. And he could certainly use a share of the money.”

  Grabbing a pair of cracked plates, Cody forked the two steaks onto them, added several biscuits, and brought the feast to the table. “Funny you should mention that no-account Navajo. He’s the one man I could always rely on, through thick and thin. I wouldn’t know where to find him, though.”

  “I do. He’s living in a shack not far from Fort Bowie. All you’d have to do is ask.”

  Suddenly it dawned on Wes Cody that his grandson was taking an inordinate interest in the renegades. He studied the young man a moment. “It seems to me that you have this whole thing already worked out. This is why you came to see me, isn’t it?”

  “Partly,” Tim admitted, knowing full well his grandfather couldn’t abide a liar. Quickly he continued to plead his case. “And Iron Eyes isn’t die only one interested. I’ve talked to Ren Starky, too. He’s interested.”

  “Ren?” Cody said, memories flooding through him of a snot-nosed kid he had taught the ins and outs of being a scout, a man more like a son than a friend. Certainly more like a son than his own son.

  “Yes, sir. He’s over to Tucson. He said that if you came by and asked him personally, he’d pull up stakes and come along.”

  Cody leaned back, not caring that his steak was growing cold. “Been making the rounds, haven’t you, boy? Settin’ things up so it would be hard for me to say no.”

  Tim grinned slyly. “I’ve done my best. Always have an edge. Isn’t that what you taught me?”

  The boy had spunk, Cody told himself. And he had to admit that the prospect of working with Iron Eyes and Ren Starky again was awful appealing. “What about the reward, Timothy? I suppose you’ve given thought to that as well?”

  “Split four ways. That’s two thousand, five hundred dollars for each of us. More money than you’ve ever seen at one time in your life, Gramps. Enough to tide you over in your twilight years.” Tim gestured. “You could fix this place up. Or have a new cabin built, one with a decent roof. Or maybe you’d like to have a pump put in so you don’t need to lug water from the spring every time you want a drink. Then there’s—”

  Cody held up a weathered hand. “That’s enough, boy. I swear, when you’re on a tear you can prattle worse than your grandm
a. The Good Lord rest her soul.” He yanked his Bowie knife from its sheath on his left hip, picked up the fork, and dug into the steak.

  Slicing, lifting, chewing, Cody did it all automatically. He couldn’t shake the notion the boy had planted, and the more he contemplated, the more he liked it. He tried telling himself that he was being a jackass, thinking he could bring in the renegades at his age. But he was old, not dead. He had a lifetime of experience to fall back on. He’d stand as good a chance as anyone else and better than most.

  The money was unimportant. Cody never had any use for it, except to buy the bare necessities.

  Saving a lot of lives was what interested Cody the most. All his life he had been looking out for those too weak or ignorant to look out for themselves. He’d guided wagon trains for a while, worked as a deputy sheriff, and then signed on to scout for the army, to help put the red savages in their place and make Arizona safe for white folks.

  Cody cut off another chunk and bit down with relish. He had enough money cached away for the supplies they would need. And with the likes of Iron Eyes and Ren to back him up, he’d end the bloodshed once and for all. “All right, boy. You’ve convinced me. I must not have the sense God gave a turnip because I’m going to do it.” He smiled, feeling grand to be alive. “I’m going to go after the White Apache.”

  Four

  Their destination was a paradise nestled in the bowels of the foreboding Dragoon Mountains, an oasis of grass and water in the midst of a parched inferno, one of several such sanctuaries known only to Apaches, This one was considered the safest. No white man had ever been there, so far as Clay Taggart’s Chiricahua companions knew. They need not be on their guard all the time. They could relax, rest up. Best of all, the new members of the band would have time to adjust to their new lot in life.

  It was not an easy adjustment, Clay Taggart knew. The five Mexican women had been tom from all that was familiar and violently thrust into the terror of the unknown. In a span of minutes their lives had turned topsy-turvy, and it would never be the same again.

  Predictably, the five went into various degrees of shock that first day after leaving the wagon train. They had to be goaded on, often with threats, sometimes with blows. Each warrior was responsible for the woman he had chosen, and since Clay had not picked one, he had little to do but keep his eyes skinned for enemies. He could observe all that went on and assess the captives for himself.

  The two sisters were as different as two people could be and still be kin. Maria reminded him of a mustang which had never been broken. She was brazen, defiant, and proud. Without complaint, she did her best to keep up, her back stiff, her chin thrust out as if it were a lance.

  Juanita, on the other hand, cringed if Ponce so much as looked at her crosswise and whined like a whipped puppy if he so much as touched her. That first day out, she gave them more trouble than all the others combined. She was weak in body as well as mind. Tiring readily, again and again she fell behind, her head hung low, sniffling in misery.

  Again and again Ponce had to hurry her along. Initially he used sharp words and that sufficed. But as the day dragged on, Juanita’s shock deepened to where she plodded along as one already dead. For perhaps the tenth time she dropped a dozen yards to the rear.

  Ponce stomped back, annoyed at himself for having agreed to bring her along, grabbed her by the arm, and pushed. “Go fast,” he commanded. “Soldiers maybe come.”

  Juanita turned dull eyes on him. She made no attempt to obey but stood there as if deaf and dumb.

  “Faster, Ish-tia-nay!” Ponce growled. He was keenly conscious of the stares of the older warriors and anxious to show that he could keep his women in line. Among Apaches it was unthinkable for a woman to shame her man. No warrior would stand for it. So when this woman did nothing more than stare blankly at him, he slapped her. The blow knocked Juanita to her knees. She made no sound other than a pathetic whimper. Nor did she stand and trek onward as he wanted.

  “You are good for nothing,” Ponce spat in disgust.

  Clay Taggart had to agree. From an Apache standpoint, she was truly good for nothing. He saw the young warrior raise a fist to strike her down.

  “No!” Maria Mendez shouted, darting over and flinging herself between the Chiricahua and her sister. “Please! I will see to it that she does not give you a problem from now on.” She put her hands on Ponce’s upraised arm. “Please!” she repeated softly, looking him right in the eyes.

  “Beat them both,” Fiero suggested. “Women must be taught to do as they are told.”

  Ponce hesitated. He was angry enough to beat the pair. He wanted to strike them. But when he gazed into the piercing, pleading eyes of the pretty one, his insides twisted all up and he felt as if he could hardly breathe. It was a strange feeling, one he had never known before, and he did not know what to make of it. In his confusion he lowered his arm, collected his wits, and grunted. ‘Very well, woman,” he growled in his imperfect Spanish. “Make sister come. Make her walk fast.” He stalked onward.

  That had been Clay’s first clue that Ponce might have bitten off more than he could chew. Juanita was docile enough, but Maria was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a woman who could hold her own against any man, and who probably would use every manner of persuasion at her command to get what she wanted. He predicted to himself that within a moon Ponce would be fawning over her, bringing her all manner of trinkets and blankets and whatever else in plunder she desired.

  The other women did much better than Juanita. By the second day they had recovered enough to whisper among themselves during short halts called so they could rest.

  Delgadito’s choice, the woman with the big chest, was named Alexandra. She had sleek hair and a sway to her hips which was a marvel for him to behold. She pleased him greatly by doing whatever he told, her without protest, but she had a habit of cringing when he sat close and once bit her lip when he touched her neck.

  Florencio was the name of the woman chosen by Cuchillo Negro. He had picked well. She adapted much more quickly than the rest. By the fourth day she was trying to learn the Chiricahua tongue and would point objects out for him to name. On die sixth night they went off together and did not come back until first light.

  The other women would have nothing to do with Florencio for two days afterward.

  But the biggest surprise of all was the woman Fiero had taken. Delores Garcia hardly ever said a word. When the firebrand told her to do something, she did it right away. She had superb endurance and was the least tired at the end of a long day. When the other women were gasping with fatigue, she was not even breathing hard.

  Fiero admitted it to no one, but he was amazed at how well she did. She was so thin, so frail, yet she endured. Initially, it angered him. He had not wanted a woman and had no intention of keeping her. Day after day he looked for her to keel over so he could go on alone, but she seemed to grow stronger, not weaker. It was a great mystery to him. He held the Nakai-yes in contempt as weaklings and cowards, yet here this skinny woman was proving to be made of tempered steel.

  White Apache pushed hard for the border. The Mexican Army was bound to try and cut them off, and once on U.S. soil they would be safe. His only worry was that word would reach Arizona before they got there and the Fifth Cavalry would try to intercept them before they could reach the Dragoons.

  Sure enough, the band crossed over east of Nogales and almost immediately came on fresh tracks of many shod horses moving in a column from east to west.

  White Apache changed tactics. Instead of traveling north from dawn until dust, they holed up in gullies or thick brush during the day and moved only at night. They were hours shy of the Dragoon Mountains when that which he wanted to avoid, happened.

  It was almost dawn. White Apache sought a place to lay low. He was in the lead, scanning the chaparral, when he came to a low hill and trudged to the top. Only when he paused on the crest did he realize the blunder he had almost made.

  Encamped at the base of t
he hill was a patrol. To the east the mounts had been tethered. The troopers still slept except for a pair of sentries and a man busy making coffee. In another few minutes reveille would be sounded.

  The hill had not only hidden the camp, it had muffled what little noise was being made. And the thin tendrils of smoke from the fire were being blown around the hill, not over it.

  White Apache immediately crouched and motioned. The warriors imitated him, pulling the women down beside them. He saw that neither sentry had seen him, while the man at the fire was wrestling with a can which would not open. Backing quietly down the slope, he was almost below the rim when one of the sentries happened to glance up.

  The soldier was a private, a very young and inexperienced private who had arrived at Fort Bowie less than two weeks before. This was his first patrol and he was as tightly wound as a spring. On spying the head of a figure silhouetted against the brightening sky, he did what came naturally; he whipped his carbine to his shoulder and banged off a shot.

  White Apache ducked a heartbeat before bits of dirt rained down on him. Sprinting to the left, he joined the band as the warriors hauled the captives into the brush.

  The women had been hiking all night and were extremely tired. They were also bewildered by the gunshot and the reaction of their captors. Juanita Mendez was so scared she could scarcely move, so Maria took it on herself to hurry her along.

  Pandemonium reigned in the camp. White Apache heard bellows and the rattle of accoutrements. He jogged farther into the mesquite, careful to avoid the thorny limbs. The brush slowed them down, but it also worked in their favor. No self-respecting cavalryman would plunge his horse into mesquite and have it ripped to ribbons.

  They covered about a hundred yards when pursuit sounded. Horses nickered, hooves drummed, and an officer rasped orders. “Jenkins, take your men to the right. Wilson, to the left. Spread out. We’ll trap them between us.” Almost as an afterthought, the man added, “Chivari, you know what to do.”