“Shuck the hardware, gents,” Clay directed. “Real slow, unless you’re partial to being lead poisoned.” Tensed to cut loose at the first wrong move, he watched them shed their revolvers. Quid lowered his bent leg to hide the knife in his boot but Clay wagged the Winchester. “That Kansas neck blister of yours, too, mister.”
The big man reluctantly tossed the Bowie onto the pile.
All three of them had rifles, but only the scout had kept his handy. Motioning, Clay made Plunkett throw it to one side. Then he indicated a flat spot to the left of the pool. “Plant yourselves over there while I have a look at your war bags.”
Bodine glowered. “You keep your hands off our personal effects, damn you!”
“Or what?” Clay could not resist taunting. “You’ll talk me to death like you do your pards?” Accenting his order with a jab of the rifle, he let them seat themselves; then he hunkered and poked through their saddlebags.
Once, the mere thought of going through another man’s plunder would have filled Clay Taggart with indignation. That was before his wealthy neighbor had framed him in order to steal his ranch out from under him. That was before he had been saved from a lynching by Delgadito and the renegades. And that was before he had learned every white man in Arizona had turned against him, even men he had once called friends, men who had shared drinks with him, won some of his money at cards, or been to his ranch.
Bitter experience had taught Clay Taggart to think as an Apache would. Now he regarded all whites as mortal enemies who would gun him down on sight. That made these men fair game, as well as everything they owned.
It was more than a matter of a simple lust for vengeance. Clay Taggart had taken to the Apache way of life heart and soul. He had remade himself in their image, becoming more Apache than white, and buried the part of him that had been caused so much torment under the hard exterior of an Apache warrior.
The unwritten Chiricahua creed had become the sole standard by which Clay Taggart lived: To kill without being killed, to steal without being caught.
So it was not Clay Taggart, rancher, who rummaged through the belongings of the bounty hunters. It was Lickoyee-shis-inday, an Apache warrior in spirit, if not by birthright. He cast useless articles aside: extra spurs and cinches, whang leather, a deck of playing cards, and spare clothes. Boxes of ammo, though, he stacked in a pile next to the guns. When he was all done, he stuffed the cartridges into an empty saddlebag and crammed the pistols into another.
Quid studied him the whole time. Plunkett played with his beard, his brow puckered. Bodine acted as if he had ants in his britches. Finally, the young cutthroat could not stand the suspense any longer.
“What do you aim to do with us, Taggart?”
White Apache glanced at them. “I haven’t rightly made up my mind yet. You deserve to be skinned alive and staked out for the buzzards to eat.”
“I’d like to see you try!” Bodine blustered.
Rising, White Apache picked up the Bowie. “Suit yourself,” he said, and could not repress a grin when the skinny tough recoiled and raised a hand as if to ward off a blow.
Their leader unexpectedly smacked Bodine on the shoulder. “Damn, kid! Show some grit. I’m starting to think that bringing you along was a mistake. Can’t you see this varmint is playing with us?”
Clay had noticed that Quid spoke with a distinct drawl of a sort he had heard before. “Texan?” he asked.
“Born and bred.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“Blame yourself.”
“Me?”
Quid nodded. “You’ve become downright famous, mister. Word of the price on your head has spread clear to the Pecos, and beyond. That much money is mighty hard to resist. Its more than most folks earn in a lifetime.” He shrugged. “You can’t blame a man for trying.”
“Yes, I can,” Clay countered harshly. It had been troublesome enough when he had to contend with every local gun shark under the sun. To learn they were coming from far and wide to compete for the honor of filling him with holes made Clay realize, as nothing else could, that he would be a hunted man for as long as he lived. No matter how deeply into the mountains he retreated, or how far out into the desert he might go, there would always be greedy men willing to risk all they had for a chance at the $25,000. North of the border, south of the border, it made no difference. They would plague him to the very gates of hell, if need be.
Months ago, when Clay first started down his new path, he’d known that it would lead to more and more bloodshed as time went on. At that time he had vowed to blow out the lamps of each and every man who had unjustly lynched him, as well as take his revenge on the mastermind behind the necktie social. He had also given Delgadito his word to help the renegades in their relentless war on his former people, in return for their having saved his hide.
But Clay had never foreseen that he would become the object of the most relentless manhunt in the history of the territory. He had figured on being the hunter, not the one being hunted.
It angered Clay to think that men like Quid, Plunkett and Bodine would never permit him a moment’s peace. It infuriated him that whites were sneaking onto the reservation, in defiance of the law, just for the privilege of bedding him down, permanently.
The treaty that Cochise and Jeffords had hammered out after so much effort, the precious treaty that let the Chiricahua continue living pretty much as they had since the dawn of their people, now stood in grave jeopardy because of him.
Just then the big bounty hunter known as Quid offered a crooked grin. “Tell you what, Taggart. How about if I give you my word that we’ll leave this part of the country and never come back? Would you let us go?”
White Apache stalked up to them. The young one slid backward a few feet in blatant fear. The old one eyed him warily. Quid sat there with that brazen grin plastered on his face awaiting an answer.
“How stupid do you reckon I am?” White Apache asked Quid, then hit him. In a short, powerful stroke he slammed the stock of his rifle into the bounty hunter’s face.
There was a loud crunch and a thud as Quid keeled onto his back. Both of his lips were smashed and two lower teeth were busted. Blood poured down over his chin. Dazed, he tossed his head as a great bull might, then raised a hand to his mouth. Sheer rage lit his dark eyes. Snarling, he heaved up off the ground and threw himself at Taggart.
White Apache was ready. Sidestepping the foolish rush, he drove the stock into Quid’s gut, doubling the man in half, and followed through with a brutal arc to the temple that felled the bounty hunter like a poled ox.
The patter of onrushing footsteps warned White Apache of another attack. He had barely an instant in which to react. For most men, that would not have been enough; they would have gone done under Plunkett’s flailing fists. But Clay Taggart’s reflexes were not like those of most men. His had been honed to a razor’s edge by experts in close combat. His were virtually the equal of the finest fighters on the continent, and they were certainly the equal of this occasion.
Lightning in motion, White Apace whirled and slammed the barrel across the scout’s chest, knocking Plunkett head over heels. The man went down hard and made no move to stand.
Suddenly White Apache saw that Bodine was gone. He assumed the young killer was trying for the horses and shifted in that direction. Only he was wrong. White Apache whipped around at the very moment that Jess Bodine sprang at him with the Bowie he had dropped poised to strike. If not for the Winchester, White Apache would have died then and there. The big blade rang against the barrel as he jerked the rifle up. Pivoting, he dodged a wild slash that nearly opened his throat. Bodine closed in again.
White Apache simply leveled the Winchester and stroked the trigger at point-blank range.
The slug caught Bodine high in the chest and catapulted him to the rear. He smacked onto his stomach in the dirt. Body convulsing, the bounty hunter tried to rise but could not. Uttering a strangled gasp, he died.
Clay
Taggart surveyed his handiwork a few moments. Bending, he set to work preparing the big man and the scout. He finished mere seconds before Quid opened his eyes and sat up. The Texan started to rise, then caught himself.
“What the hell!”
Seated on a rock at the edge of the spring, Clay patted the mound of clothes, belts and boots beside him. “Are you looking for these, killer?”
Quid was livid. “You son of a bitch! What are you playing at? If you’re going to shoot us, get it over with.”
“I don’t aim to waste another bullet on either of you,” Clay revealed. Dipping his left hand into the cool water, he cupped it and took a loud sip.
Bob Plunkett stirred. Groaning, he slowly pushed up but froze halfway. “Damn!” he blurted. “I’m buck naked!” Shocked, he looked around and spotted the clothes. Insight dawned. He licked his thin lips. “The Apaches have taught you well, mister.”
“Thank you,” Clay said.
“You can’t do this,” Quid said without conviction. Squinting, he stared up at the burning sun, then at the stark canyon walls. “What chance would we have?”
“What chance were you going to give me?” Clay said. He jabbed a thumb to the west. “Tucson is that way. Start walking. With a little luck you might make it in two or three weeks.”
The two bounty hunters slowly stood. Plunkett awkwardly covered himself as he shuffled off. Quid lingered to shake a fist and vowed, “Mark my words, hombre. I’ll get even with you if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
Clay was in no mood to abide any sass. “Light a shuck before I see if your backside is bullet proof.”
Leaning back, he watched as they hurried to the bend, hopping and prancing like jack-rabbits whenever their feet made contact with hot stone. Once they were gone, he collected their saddlebags and rounded up their horses.
Clay did not take Quid’s threat seriously. If Apaches or wild animals failed to get the pair, the merciless land would eat them alive. He seriously doubted that Quid would ever be in a position to do him any harm.
Little did he know how very wrong he was.
Chapter Two
William Randolph did not think much of St. Louis. The city was too uncivilized for his tastes, too horribly uncouth. Filled with settlers about to head west, trappers, and buffalo men and frontiersmen of every kind in from the Plains, it had a raw, primitive air he positively loathed.
The reporter preferred the finer things in life. He could not say exactly when it had happened, but Randolph had developed a taste for the very best clothes, the very best food, in short, for the best of everything money could buy.
The process had been gradual. As a top journalist in New York City, it had been part of Randolph’s job to seek out and interview the rich and the powerful, the cream of New York society.
Seeing how the elite lived, mingling with them at their favorite restaurants and their clubs, letting them treat him to the most expensive liquor and meals, Randolph had found himself growing passionately fond of the tapestries of wealth. Unfortunately, he was in a profession that seldom rewarded those who made their living at it with great wealth.
So Randolph had been faced with a problem: How was he to treat himself to all the wonderful goodies money could buy when he had no money?
The answer had come to him quite by accident.
Randolph had been assigned to cover the story of a man wanted for several vicious robberies. The fellow also happened to have a sizable price on his head. Randolph had made the rounds of the man’s family and friends, as was customary, to gather background information.
Word got back to the robber, who then sent a message to Randolph offering to turn himself in if Randolph would guarantee his safe conduct. The police, it seemed, had been upset because the man had slain one of their own, a sin New York police never forgave. They would kill the suspect on sight.
At first, Randolph had gone along with the man’s request. In good faith he had arranged to meet and promised to set up the surrender so the robber would not be harmed.
Then, over a glass of wine that very evening, Randolph had second thoughts. It occurred to him that the $7,000 reward would go to waste since, technically, it was for the suspect’s apprehension. There had also been the murky question of ethics. In his professional capacity, he did not have the right to claim the money.
So Randolph had compromised. He had contacted the merchants’ association offering the reward and discreetly let them know that he could lead their men to the robber’s hiding place if they were willing to slip him the money without anyone being the wiser. They had agreed, and the poor suspect had been killed ‘resisting.’ Meanwhile Randolph had started on a new phase of his journalistic career.
In three years Randolph had made more money than in all his previous years combined. His bank account had swollen to over 10,000 dollars, and still he craved more. His goal was to have a million to his name before he reached sixty. And at the rate he was going, he would achieve it.
As the carriage Randolph had rented at a livery clattered along a rough country road on the outskirts of the city he despised, he consulted the tablet he was never without. On the first page were listed the names of those who would unwittingly contribute to his growing hoard. At the top, in bold print, was the name Clay Taggart.
The carriage took a turn too fast for Randolph’s taste. Poking his head out, he said, “I want to reach my destination alive, driver, if that is at all possible.”
Perched on the seat was a bearded rascal in clothes fit for burning. Cackling crazily, he lashed the team with the whip so they would go faster even as he answered, “Whatever you want, fancy pants.”
Randolph stewed. The man’s lack of respect was galling, another example of the rustic mentality of the common herd. He was glad that there would come a time when he no longer had to deal with people like that, when he could surround himself with those who appreciated their betters.
The land beyond the window held little interest for Randolph. It was verdant farmland, too flat and green for his taste. He glimpsed farmers toiling in their fields, and he branded them as dolts for being stupid enough to accept such a grueling life.
Why did people do it? Randolph wondered. Why did they break their backs year after year to eke out a living on paltry parcels of land? Of what real value were their crude little homes? Their packs of squalling brats? Their filthy pets? In his view their lives were a total waste.
A shout from the driver drew the reporters gaze to a cutoff ahead.
“That’s the Taggart place yonder, fancy pants. You’re in luck. Somebody is home.”
A dirt track led to a frame house that had seen better days. From a stone chimney curled smoke. In the yard grazed a mule and a half-dozen sheep and goats. Chickens pecked and scratched. In a fenced field to the west were eight or nine cows.
Randolph hated the farm on sight.
Most of the animals scattered as the carriage rattled up. The chickens squawked and fluttered about. Only the mule was unperturbed. It went on munching contentedly.
Whistling to himself, the driver hopped down and opened the door. “Here you are, fancy pants. And you’re still alive, too. Ain’t it a miracle?”
“Your employer will hear about your rude behavior,” Randolph said sternly, alighting. “You are a menace to yourself and others, Mr.—” he tried to remember the man’s name but couldn’t.
“Fletcher. Ike Fletcher,” the man informed him. Arching an eyebrow, Fletcher nudged Randolph with an elbow and said, “Is it me, or could you use a quart or two of prune juice? How a person can go through life with such a sour disposition is beyond me.”
Irate, the reporter pushed on past and marched the length of a narrow gravel path to the front porch. He was about to step up when the screen door creaked open to reveal a young woman in a homespun dress and an apron. Instead of the robust, rough-hewn matron Randolph had expected to meet, here was a dark-haired, delicate beauty whose face bore more lines than her age merited and wh
ose lake-blue eyes mirrored an inner strength that seemed out of place in one so frail. She regarded him with fleeting interest, scanned the carriage, then smiled at Fletcher.
“It’s been a coon’s age, Ike. How are you?”
“Just fine, ma’am,” the man dutifully replied, doffing his battered hat. “Yourself?”
“Making do.” Those piercing eyes fixed on Randolph. “I’m Amelia Taggart. Who might you be, mister? Another bill collector?”
“No, not at all,” the journalist assured her, inwardly delighted to learn she was strapped for money. Randolph introduced himself, adding, “I’ve traveled a considerable distance, at great personal expense, to talk to you. I do so hope you will extend me the courtesy of listening.” Pausing, he said conspiratorially, “It’s to your benefit, my dear. Yours, and that of your cousin, Clay.”
“My cousin?” Amelia repeated in surprise. “Land’s sake, I haven’t seen Clay since we were sprouts. How is it that you know about him?”
“It’s my business to know things,” Randolph said suavely. “For instance, his father, Rafe Taggart, was your father’s older brother. The two of them lived on adjoining farms back in Ohio before Rafe headed west to take up ranching. Your father, Cyrus, did the same a few years later but settled here instead of going on to the Arizona Territory.”
Amelia had been wiping her slender hands on the apron. Stopping, she studied him anew. “Goodness, you do know an awful lot about us. Everything you say is true. My pa took up roots here because ma grew sickly. He feared going on would kill her.”
“How noble of him,” William Randolph said. False flattery, he had learned, gave people the impression that he genuinely cared about them even though nothing could be further from the truth. It helped him win their trust, which was crucial in convincing them to agree to his proposals. “Your father must have been a fine man.”
“That he was,” Amelia said, saddening. “He lost his will to live when he heard about my older brother’s death at Gettysburg.”
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