White Apache 9

by David Robbins

  Many a time Clay had witnessed one of his warrior friends steal a magnificent horse in a raid, only to find it roasting over a fire a week or a month later. He had yet to see a horse last more than six months in their camp.

  For a former rancher, the Apache attitude toward livestock had been one of the most difficult to accept. Clay could understand how they felt about his own kind, since white-eyes had stolen most of their land right out from under them. He could appreciate why they regarded all other people as enemies to be vanquished or driven off since the history of their tribe was one long string of bloody clashes. But their callous disregard for horses, even those that had served them in good stead, was an outlook he found impossible to share.

  On a sunny day, about two weeks after he tangled with the three bounty hunters, White Apache rode along a high ridge several miles to the northwest of the sheltered canyon in which the renegades were camped. He was after antelope and hoped to come upon some in one of the low valleys that bordered the Chiricahua Mountains.

  It was a hot day, so hot that even the lizards and snakes had sought shade during the inferno of early afternoon. Once, not all that long ago, White Apache would have done the same. That was before he had been taken under Delgadito’s wing, so I’d speak, and taught how to survive in the wilderness, how to find food where no other white men could, how to locate water in the middle of the driest of deserts, and how to endure the blistering Arizona sun without complaint.

  Presently a winding valley watered by a narrow stream unfolded below him. Sticking to whatever cover was handy, White Apache worked his way down the boulder-strewn slope to a stand of saplings near its base. The stream was a stone’s throw away, so close he could smell the dank scent of the water. That, and something else.

  White Apache stiffened as the acrid odor of fresh horse urine wafted to his sensitive nostrils. Scouring the cottonwoods that lined the serpentine waterway, he noticed a wide area where the grass lining the bank had been trampled. A few hoofprints were visible.

  The tracks deserved to be investigated, but White Apache was not about to ride out into the open. Sliding from the stallion, he ground hitched it, then snaked through the saplings to a belt of grama grass, where he lowered onto his hands and knees. The grass was waist high and could have concealed an entire war party. Securely shrouded, he made a beeline for the stream, poking his head into the open within ten feet of the flattened area.

  Other than the fluttering of leaves, the cottonwoods were still.

  White Apache boldly stepped from concealment, the Winchester pressed to his shoulder, hammer cocked. No shots greeted him. No shouts broke out.

  Judging by the number of prints, the freshness of the impressed dirt, and the fact the horses had all been shod save one, White Apache deduced that a routine cavalry patrol out of Fort Bowie had stopped to rest there less than an hour ago. Stepping to a slender cottonwood, he leaned his rifle against another, coiled, and sprang as high as he could. Grabbing the trunk, he wrapped his arms and legs around it and shimmied as high as the thin bole allowed.

  No troopers were evident, but White Apache did discover a small herd of antelope grazing a mile off. Descending, he hunted for a thin branch about the length of his arm, which he then stripped of leaves and offshoots. Then he set off on foot toward them, hunched at the waist so they would not catch sight of him. The barrel of his rifle parted the high stems of grass much as the prow of a ship cleaved ocean waves.

  Within several hundred yards of his quarry, White Apache knelt and burrowed under the sand and grass with the ease of a gopher. Once he had a shallow hole excavated, he drew his Bowie knife, cut a strip from the bottom of his breechcloth, and tied it to the end of the branch.

  Lying flat on his back, White Apache placed the rifle beside him. It took mere moments to scoop the loose dirt over his legs and torso. Perfectly concealed except for his left arm, he elevated the branch and slowly waved it back and forth. The strip flapped lightly.

  Cuchillo Negro, one of the friendlier renegades, had taught Clay this trick, routinely used by Apache to kill antelope and sometimes deer.

  Curiosity, the white-eyes liked to say, was the fatal flaw of felines. The same could be said of antelope. Clay had been dumbstruck the first time he had observed the ploy in operation. It had struck him as plain ridiculous. Antelope were among the wariest of animals, able to spot movement four miles off, ready to flee at the first hint of a predator in their vicinity, human or otherwise. None would be deceived by so obvious a tactic.

  Yet, to Clay’s astonishment, dozens of the animals had been drawn to the waving bit of cloth Cuchillo Negro had used to tempt them in close, drawn as inexorably as fish to a bright lure or deer to a salt lick.

  Now White Apache turned his head, placing an ear to the ground. He heard them long before he saw them. The dull patter of their small hooves gave them away. Presently he glimpsed furtive four-legged shapes gliding cautiously toward the branch. He did not stop waving it. To break the motion, Cuchillo Negro had instructed him, would send the animals fleeing in panicked flight, and once they were on the move, it was next to impossible to bring one down.

  Antelope were the fastest animals on the North American continent, among the fleetest in the world. Vaulting in twenty-foot bounds, they could race along at over sixty miles an hour for minutes at a time. No horse could keep up. And trying to fix a bead on their bobbing forms was a study in frustration.

  Suddenly a pronghorn buck made bold to approach. Its wide dark eyes were fixed on the flapping strip. As if mesmerized, it walked up and tilted its head to sniff.

  White Apache had to strike before the befuddled animal registered his scent. He swung the stick away from the antelope, and when it started to lean forward, he let go and looped his left arm around its neck even as he speared the Bowie into its throat. Automatically, the buck bounded backward, or tried to, but White Apache held on, stabbing again and again, slicing the pronghorn’s throat to ribbons in a span of seconds. Warm blood gushed down over his chin and poured down his chest. Sharp hooves scraped at his legs. In frenzied desperation the buck half dragged him out of the hole. Still, White Apache held on. Then his forearms grew slick. He began to lose his hold. Just when he feared the animal would slip free and flee, it wheezed like a bellows, staggered, and fell on top of him.

  White Apache heaved and rolled to the right. Experience had taught him that stricken antelope often thrashed madly about. In their wild convulsions they had been known to impale anyone rash enough to be within reach of their short but wicked black horns.

  This particular buck sported a pair of fourteen inchers, curved to the back and slightly inward. They had conical tips. About halfway up, each had a short, broad prong that jutted to the front, from which the name pronghorn was derived.

  The rest of the herd was in full flight. White Apache watched them rapidly recede to the north while wiping blood from his body with clumps of grama grass. At his feet the buck kicked and flopped about until too weak to continue. Finally, it expired. White Apache slid the Bowie into the beaded sheath Marista had made for him, stooped, and hoisted the antelope onto his shoulders. It weighed in excess of 120 pounds, but he bore it effortlessly.

  White Apache retrieved his rifle, faced westward, and made for the stand where he had left the stallion. The hunt had gone so well that he would be back at the wickiup before nightfall.

  To the south a large red hawk soared high over the Chiricahua. White Apache felt the sun on his back and smiled. At that moment in time he felt more alive than he ever had as a rancher. His whole body pulsed with health and vigor. His muscles, once sinewy and lean, bulged with raw vitality.

  Years ago, if anyone had come up to Clay and told him that one day he would be living the life of a renegade Apache and loving every minute of it, he would have branded the man plumb loco. Until Delgadito saved him from a strangulation jig, he had been much like every other white man in the territory, mistaking the Apache for vermin.

  Clay ch
uckled. That old saw about walking a mile in the other fellow’s boots, or in this case, moccasins, was as true as ever. Now that he saw the world through the eyes of a Chiricahua, he had a whole new outlook on life.

  Deep in thought, White Apache reached the stream and started to wade across. A faint noise made him pivot to see behind him. For a moment he stood riveted in place, then he whirled and ran.

  The soldiers had returned. Led by a saber-wielding officer, they had fanned out in a half-moon formation and advanced as quietly as possible. Their intent was transparent. Not knowing that Clay had a horse hidden nearby, they sought to take him alive by getting as close as they could and then encircling him before he could flee.

  White Apache raced for the saplings, the antelope bouncing with every stride. The smart thing to do was to cast the buck aside so he could run even faster, but he stubbornly refused. He had gone to a lot of trouble to slay the animal. No matter what, he was bound and determined to hold on to it.

  “After him, boys!” the officer bellowed. “Don’t let him get away!”

  At a gallop the troopers closed in. To a man they had their carbines out and ready for action. The young officer was slightly in the lead, his gleaming saber thrust in front of him, his features aglow with excitement.

  White Apache knew that the only reason they had not opened fire on sight was because they had no idea whether he was a renegade or a tame Apache. As yet they were not near enough to note his blue eyes. To them, he appeared to be a typical warrior, and so long as he held his fire, they would probably do the same.

  As if to confirm his hunch, many of the troopers commenced whooping and hollering, treating the chase as some kind of game. They thought they had him at their mercy.

  White Apache was going to prove them wrong. He gained the edge of the stand, spun, hoisted the Winchester overhead, and yipped at them in defiance. Then, weaving among the thin trees, he reached the stallion.

  The big black had been agitated by all the racket and had started to run off but stepped on the dangling rein and been drawn up short. It snorted as Clay slung the buck up over its back. Gripping its mane, Clay swung up, cut to the south, and jabbed his heels into its flanks.

  The stallion needed little encouragement. Spooked by the yells of the cavalrymen and the thunder of scores of hooves, it burst from the saplings at a full gallop.

  Harsh shouts and lusty curses greeted White Apache’s reappearance. He had to ride with his body partially twisted in order to hold on to the antelope, and he saw the surprise on the troopers’ faces give way to anger. They did not like being outfoxed. With their officer goading them on, they swept toward him, converging into a compact column.

  “Halt!” the officer roared. “In the name of the U.S. Government, I order you to stop where you are!”

  White Apache grinned. The lieutenant had to be green indeed to think that he would obey. Flapping his legs, he spurred the stallion into a draw which shortly brought him out at the base of the ridge he had descended earlier. To attempt to scale the steep slope with the army so hard on his heels would invite disaster, so he hugged the bottom and bent low, the air fanning his cheeks, his long hair whipping.

  The stallion ran with a smooth, steady gait, the equal of any thoroughbred. Clay marveled again at its speed and superb endurance. He had no worry of being caught. Already the troopers were rapidly falling behind.

  Then White Apache swept around a bend, and suddenly in front of him loomed a spine of earth and rock too steep for any horse to climb. He had to swing wide to the right to go around. In the process, he lost ground. A lot of ground.

  The young lieutenant angled to intercept him, saying, “We have him now, boys! Onward!”

  It would have been so easy for White Apache to drop five or six of them then and there. Delgadito, Fiero or one of the other renegades would have. But Clay held his fire, telling himself that he would still not shoot unless they did.

  White Apache came to the end of the spine. The big black skirted a boulder the size of a log cabin. Beyond it lay an open stretch where they could regain some of the lead they had lost. They fairly flew, Clay firming his hold on the antelope which had started to slip off.

  Ahead, White Apache spied a long shadow which he assumed was cast by the ridge to his left. But as he streaked nearer, he realized it could not possibly be a shadow. The ridge was to the east; the sun was to the west. There was no logical explanation for the shadow being there. Or so he mistakenly believed until he covered another fifty yards and was close enough to see the presumed shadow for what it really was. His pulse quickened and his mouth went dry.

  Long ago a wide fissure had rent the earth, forming a dark abyss. The width of the cleft was uneven. It narrowed and widened haphazardly. At its narrowest, though, the distance to the opposite rim was at least fifteen to twenty feet.

  There was no going around it. Slanting to either side would give the troopers the chance they needed to overtake him. He might reach the end of the fissure before they did, but by then they would be so close that it might occur to the young officer to drop the stallion with a well-placed shot.

  Fate had left Clay a single option. It was sheer lunacy to try. Yet he dared not let the soldiers get their hands on him. Once they realized who he was, he’d be trussed up and taken back to Fort Bowie. Whether the army turned him over to the civilian authorities was irrelevant. The end result would be the same, namely, his neck stretched at the end of a long piece of hemp.

  So Clay did the only thing he could do. Reluctantly, he shoved the antelope off, leaned low over the stallion’s neck and urged it on, applying the reins and his feet. The fissure flashed toward them. He tore his eyes off of the yawning chasm and concentrated on the far rim. Nothing but the far rim.

  “Don’t try it!” the officer yelled. “You’ll be killed!”

  White Apache paid the man no heed. Unconsciously, he took a deep breath and held it as the stallion covered the final few yards. The big black leaped, arcing high into the air. Below them, the fissure dropped into the bowels of the earth. To fall meant certain doom.

  The ragged edge rushed toward them. White Apache stayed focused on the rim. He tensed as they crashed down. His body was jolted by the heavy impact, but he held on. For a few harrowing seconds the stallion scrambled wildly, its rear legs fighting for purchase on the edge. Rocks and dirt cascaded from under its flailing hooves to plummet into the depths below. Then, to his horror, they began to go over the side.

  Chapter Four

  “You want to do what?’

  William Randolph could not quite believe his ears. They had been in Phoenix less than ten minutes, and had only just checked into the best hotel the primitive adobe trade center had to offer. His plan was to spend one night there and no more. He was about to go to arrange for their passage to Tucson when the Taggart woman walked up to him and made her preposterous request.

  “I would like to see the governor,” Amelia repeated, at a loss to understand why her benefactor was so upset. He need not go along if he did not want to, but she just had to see the honorable John N. Goodwin before she talked to Clay. Her cousin’s life depended on it.

  Randolph hesitated. For the life of him, he could not imagine what the woman was up to. But he was dead set against her going. In order for his plan to succeed, they must keep a low profile. The fewer who knew about their arrangement, the less the likelihood of anyone putting two and two together after her cousin was killed. Recovering his composure, he inquired politely, “Might I ask why?”

  Amelia almost told him. Something, a feeling deep inside, intuition perhaps, changed her mind as she opened her mouth. “I’d rather not say, Mr. Randolph. I must insist, though. You can go on about your business while I do what has to be done.”

  The reporter was mad enough to spit nails but he hid it well. He’d had plenty of practice on their journey west.

  Of all the women William Randolph had ever met, Amelia Taggart had turned out to be the most exasperating. She
was a willful woman who did as she damn well pleased whether he liked it or not.

  The first time had been when he paid her the 400 dollars. He had brought cash but she insisted on being paid in gold coins. Just for her, he’d made an extra trip into St. Louis and visited a local bank.

  The second time took place when they rode into the city to catch the stage. She had refused to leave until she bought a new outfit, and because she had dawdled, they had nearly been left behind.

  In Denver, Randolph had arranged for a suite for the two of them. He saw no harm in sharing it since there were two bedrooms, at opposite ends. But Amelia had stubbornly refused to sleep under the same roof as him, saying it was not the ladylike thing to do. So he’d had to get her a separate room at an added expense.

  There had been other incidents, minor affairs in themselves, but collectively they had aggravated him to no end. Randolph would never have tolerated her behavior if she were not so crucial to the success of his scheme.

  “I’m deeply hurt that you don’t trust me enough to confide in me,” Randolph said, playing his part to the hilt. “But I will, of course, abide by your wishes.” He bestowed his most charming smile on her. As always, it failed to elicit any response. “As for my other business, it can wait. Unless you have an objection, I would very much like to go with you.”

  Amelia saw no harm in it. “Very well. Let’s get started.”

  Randolph was relieved. He had to learn what she was about and how it would affect his scheme. As they descended the plush stairs to the ornate lobby, he racked his brain for an argument he could use to convince her that it was best for everyone that they not go through with it. The best he could come up with was to remark casually, “You know, my dear, it might not be wise to draw too much attention to ourselves. There are many unscrupulous men in Arizona who would leap at the chance to claim the bounty on your cousin. If any of them should learn your identity, they might use you to get at him.”