White Apache 9

by David Robbins

  “Spare me another tall tale,” Quid said. Defiantly, he took a long drag and blew a small cloud into the air.

  The scout glanced at his partner. It was rare for the big man to speak so harshly to him. “What’s gotten into your craw?”

  “Nothing,” Quid lied.

  Plunkett was too shrewd to be fooled. “Seems to me that you’re lettin’ this White Apache get under your skin. So what if he licked us once? This time we have an edge.” Hunkering, he plucked the dry stem of a withered plant and stuck it between his front teeth. “It ain’t like you to get all flustered. Keep it up and you’ll worry me.”

  “I’m not flustered!” Quid snapped. “It’s just that I want him dead so badly, I can damned near taste it.”

  “Which is just as bad, I reckon,” Plunkett said. “Revenge makes a man reckless. A person in our line of work has to keep their wits about ‘em at all times. So don’t let Taggart drive you to the wall.”

  Quid did not like being lectured. “Don’t worry about me, old man. When the time comes, I’ll be ready.” To avoid any more talk on the subject, he stalked off, along the rim. It was seventy-five yards from the spot they had selected for the ambush to the first bend in the canyon. Over a quarter of a mile past the bend lay the spring where Taggart’s cousin waited.

  Nothing moved down there. Yet. Quid walked to where the pudgy gunman, Fergy, knelt in a wide cleft. In his current frame of mind, if he had caught Fergy sleeping, there would have been hell to pay. But the gunman was awake, fiddling with a spur.

  Looking up, Fergy said, “Anything wrong, boss?”

  “No.” Quid paused to gaze out over the foothills that led up to the canyon, and the plain beyond. “Bob just relieved me. I’ll send Belcher up to spell you in a few minutes.”

  Fergy grinned. “It won’t be long until Taggart shows, will it? I can’t wait to get my hands on my share. It’s more money than I’ve ever had at one time in my whole life.”

  Quid stared at the unsuspecting gunny. Little did Fergy realize that Belcher and he would never spend a cent of the reward. He turned to go.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you a favor,” Fergy said.

  The big man faced him.

  “You’re a fair hombre to work for. If you ever need an extra gun again, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”

  “I can always use a good man. Survive this,” Quid said soberly, “and we’ll see.”

  “Don’t you worry. The White Apache isn’t about to blow out my lamp if I can help it.”

  Nodding, Quid headed for their camp. A prick of conscience troubled him but he shrugged it off. He couldn’t let feelings get in his way, not where money was concerned. That wouldn’t be professional.

  ~*~

  Amelia Taggart awoke with a start. For a while she lay staring at the top of her tent and wondering what had awakened her so rudely. She did not recall having a nightmare. Then, as she was about to close her eyes and snatch a little more sleep, her intuition flared. She experienced the most peculiar feeling that someone was watching her.

  Rolling toward the front, Amelia was shocked to see the flap fluttering, as if it had just been closed. Yet that couldn’t be. She had tied it shut prior to retiring.

  Rising to her knees, a blanket held tightly around her shoulders, Amelia scooted over. She gripped the edge and pulled. To her horror, the flap swung freely. The tie string was on the ground.

  At a loss to understand how her bow knot had come undone, Amelia examined the tie. Her consternation grew when she discovered the cord had been cut. Someone had slipped a hand under the bottom of the flap and silently sliced it while she slept.

  Amelia parted the flap enough to see the camp. There was no sign of Randolph, but the three gunmen were up and about. Wilson was toting water from the spring. Carver tended the horses. Nearest the tent, preparing coffee at the fire, was Stirco. The man glanced at the tent, saw her and smirked.

  What gall! Amelia thought to herself. Infuriated, she closed the flap and swiftly donned her everyday dress, as she called it. Clutching her handbag, she stepped out into the bright morning sunshine.

  The canyon was deathly still, unlike her farm where birds would be chirping, chickens clucking, and sheep bleating. How she missed it!

  At that moment, William Randolph emerged from his tent, yawning and scratching his chin. In his opinion it was an ungodly hour to be getting up. But he was so excited by the possibility of Clay Taggart soon appearing that he had not slept well at all. The early morning commotion outside his tent had not helped in that regard.

  Frontier types, Randolph had learned, invariably rose with the sun, or before, and for the life of him, he could not comprehend how they did it. His best guess was that they did not need as much sleep as he did because their doltish minds did not use as much energy during the day.

  Randolph noticed the woman. He forced a smile. “Good morning, Miss Taggart. You’re up earlier than usual, aren’t you?”

  Amelia did not reply. She had eyes only for Stirco. Marching up to him, she slipped a hand into her bag and palmed the pocket pistol. Boldly, she declared, “If you ever do that again, you will be sorry.”

  The gunman acted surprised. “What are you talking about, ma’am? All I’m doing is fixing coffee.”

  “You know very well what I am referring to,” Amelia said, her anger fueled by his denial. “I am a lady, not a fallen dove. You will accord me the respect I deserve or suffer accordingly.”

  William Randolph had never heard the woman speak so harshly to anyone. “What’s going on?” he asked. “What is this all about?”

  “Ask the lecher,” Amelia said. Pivoting on a heel, she walked to the spring to wash up. Wilson doffed his hat to her, so she acknowledged the greeting with a nod. Moving around to the far side of the pool, she sat and dipped her hand in the cool water.

  Inwardly, Amelia seethed. It was the old Taggart temper, the one great weakness of the Taggart clan. Her pa had it; her brother had it; and she had it. So too, she figured, did her cousin Clay.

  The Taggarts had always been slow to come to a boil, but once they did, they were capable of exploding in the most savage violence. She could still recall the time a drunk made an improper remark to her mother. Her father had beaten the scoundrel within an inch of his life.

  Splashing her face and neck, Amelia fought to calm herself. By letting Stirco rile her, she was lowering herself to his crude level. She could only pray that her warning had served its purpose. If not, the man would rue the day they met.

  Amelia gazed wistfully up the canyon, wondering where her cousin might be, and if he were aware of the circulars yet. She imagined him flying to her side, as anxious to see her again as she was to see him.

  ~*~

  Clay Taggart had ridden all night long. He had pushed the bay mercilessly, something he would never have done during his years of ranching. Now, the day less than an hour old, he had about ridden the animal into the ground. It was caked with lather, wheezing like a stricken ox. He knew that he should stop, that it dearly needed rest, but he did not slacken his pace.

  An internal urge spurred Clay on, an impulse to reach his cousin swiftly. He could not say what caused it. Maybe it was the bond they once shared. Maybe it was the fact that his cousin cared enough to go to all this trouble to see him. Maybe it was simply their being kin.

  Kin. The word echoed in the caverns of Clay’s mind, reminding him that the Taggart clan had always been tight knit, until the day his pa up and herded his family westward. He sometimes gave thought to how much different his life would have been had his pa stayed back East.

  It was strange, Clay reflected, how life worked out. A man never really knew from one minute to the next what fate had in store for him. It might be glory. It might be ruin. Or it might be an average life with few peaks and valleys. His main wish was that his life would end in a blaze of gunfire and not in a pathetic whimper.

  A sudden lurch by the bay brought Clay back to the present. The bay was
staggering on its last legs. Clay reined up and dismounted. Nickering, the horse shook itself, tried to go on, but faltered. Slowly, frothing at the mouth, it oozed to the ground.

  White Apache cocked the Winchester, then pressed the muzzle to the animals head. The bay was of no further use to him. A true Apache would shoot it and be done with it. His finger tightened on the trigger, but not enough for the hammer to strike the cartridge.

  The bay looked at him, eyes wide in fright, as if sensing impending doom.

  It was Clay Taggart, not the White Apache, who lowered the .44-40. It was Clay Taggart, not the White Apache, who stripped off the saddle and blanket. And it was Clay Taggart, not the White Apache, who gave the horse a quick rubdown before turning and jogging to the northeast.

  But once the bay was out of sight, it was the White Apache, not Clay Taggart, who ate up the miles at a pace few white men could match. It was the White Apache, not Clay Taggart, whose whipcord frame was unaffected by the blazing sun. It was the White Apache, not Clay Taggart, who took a two-hour nap shortly before sunset, then resumed his trek as refreshed as if he had slept the whole night through.

  Thanks to his Chiricahua friends, Lickoyee-shis-inday knew many of the shortcuts only the Indians knew. So it was that he came within sight of the mouth of Devil’s Canyon at approximately four o’clock the next morning.

  Clay was so eager to see Amelia that he almost entered the canyon without first making sure he was not walking into a trap. Well shy of the entrance, he halted in the shadow of a rock slab. He had only been in the canyon once before, when the band had stopped at the spring on their way back to the Dragoons after a raid into Mexico. It was, as he recollected, long and narrow, ideal for a bushwhacking.

  White Apache studied the canyon floor, the sheer walls, the remote, jagged heights. For over an hour he scrutinized every nook and cranny. When he had satisfied himself that no enemies were lying in wait, he rose. And as he did, on the north rim, a red pinpoint of light sparked briefly.

  White Apache froze. Someone was up there. Someone smoking a cigarette. It had to be a white man keeping a watch on the canyon mouth. Conflicting emotions tore at him. White Apache tried telling himself that the man must be a lookout, nothing more. Yet if the circulars had been legitimate, there would be no need for anyone to be up there, no need at all.

  The only other explanation filled White Apache with boiling rage. Whirling, he dog trotted to the north, never once exposing himself. Soon he was past the high wall. On the far side a series of slopes seemed to rear to the very sky. He prowled their base, sniffing and listening. Forty yards in, the wind brought him the scent of horses and the faint smell of wood smoke.

  White Apache climbed. His moccasins made no noise. His form was a flitting shadow, in one spot one second, in another spot the next. Many times he went to ground to test the air with his finely honed senses.

  Soon White Apache came on an old game trail bearing recent horse tracks. He took it to make better time. In due course he saw a pile of dung. Squatting, White Apache picked up a piece and rubbed it between his fingers. The degree of dryness told him that the pile had been lying there for two to three days.

  Above him, someone coughed.

  It was faint, but White Apache instantly gauged the general area from which it came. Becoming one with the shadows, he cat footed higher. Loose earth and small stones that might slide out from under him were diligently avoided. When he halted to test the air, as he often did, he crouched and mimicked the shapes of nearby boulders or brush.

  It was one of the oldest Apache tricks, the keys to their uncanny ability to sneak up on victims without being spotted.

  From an early age boys were versed in the craft. They were taught how to blend into the background by assuming the guise of whatever might be around them at the time. They might, for example, kneel and curl in half, tucking their heads flush to the ground, so that their silhouette resembled that of nearby boulders. Or they might sit with their back to their prey and hold their arms and legs so that their limbs resembled those of a small tree or shrub. The possibilities were limited only by their cleverness.

  White Apache had spent many hours honing his skill. He had a long way to go before he would equal the Chiricahua, but he was good enough to fool most any white-eye or Mexican.

  On this particular morning, White Apache came to the crest of a rocky spine. Rolling into a ball, he inched up alongside a pair of small boulders. Below him unfolded a basin. In it were camped four white men. Only two were present, but there were four horses tethered close by, and four saddles ringed the small campfire.

  One man hunkered by the fire, sipping coffee. The other was asleep, snoring lightly.

  White Apache noticed that neither wore a uniform or a badge. The man by the fire, whose face was shrouded by a low hat brim, looked up. White Apache stiffened. Recognition shot through him. It was the old scout, one of the three bounty hunters he had tangled with before. He searched his memory for the name: Plunkett, that was it.

  The scout glanced at the sleeper and frowned. “Belcher, you’d best get your lazy ass up and go spell Quid. I’ve already relieved Fergy.”

  The snoring choked off. The man under the blankets cracked an eye, then yawned. “Five more minutes. That’s all I want.”

  Bob Plunkett did not hide his contempt. In his opinion, Belcher was next to worthless. Of all the men they had hired on in Tucson, the skinny gunman was the laziest. Belcher never showed up to relieve anyone on time, yet griped to high heaven if his own relief showed up so much as a minute late. Griping, sad to say, was the one thing Belcher did well. He griped about doing his fair share of the cooking; he griped about taking a turn tending the horses; he griped about practically everything under the sun.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the scout now warned. “Quid ain’t going to like havin’ to wait again. He’s liable to bust your skull this time.”

  “He doesn’t scare me,” Belcher said.

  “Only because you don’t have any brains.” Plunkett went to swallow more coffee when a feeling came over him that he was being watched. He swiveled toward the canyon, thinking that Quid had returned to beat the stuffing out of Belcher. But no one was there. Mystified, he studied the north basin rim and saw nothing to account for his feeling. He looked at the horses. None showed any alarm.

  Shrugging, Plunkett tilted the tin cup to his lips. Liquid splashed his neck, and he felt a slight tingling sensation. Thinking that he had stupidly missed his mouth, he wiped his throat with the back of his hand. Abruptly, the tingle changed to a searing pain, just as he raised his hand high enough to see that the warm liquid clinging to it was not coffee. It was blood. His blood.

  Bob Plunkett dropped the cup and started to rise. Opening his mouth to shout a warning, he stabbed a hand at his pistol.

  White Apache was faster. He clamped a hand over the white-eye’s mouth, seized the scout’s gun arm and held Plunkett in an iron grip. The man thrashed and fought to break free. A crimson geyser spewed from the throat White Apache had slit with a single lightning stroke. Gradually, the older man weakened. Soon Plunkett’s knees buckled. White Apache eased the scout to the ground, then pinned him until the body stopped convulsing.

  Bowie in hand, White Apache stepped to the skinny gunman. Crouching low, he held the bloody blade over Belcher’s face. A red drop slid off the cold steel, dripping onto the end of the man’s nose.

  The gunman snorted but did not open his eyes.

  White Apache let another drop fall.

  This time Belcher swiped a hand at the air, as if to ward off an annoying insect. He snorted and tossed.

  Moving the blade over the man’s right eye, White Apache angled it so that the next drop fell onto the eyelid.

  “What the hell?” Belcher blurted, sitting up.

  White Apache pounced. Slamming into the gunman’s chest, he knocked Belcher flat again even as he drove the Bowie between two ribs. Belcher arched and went to scream. Instantly White A
pache stifled the outcry, then savagely speared the Bowie into the gunman four more times as hard as he could. Belcher died wearing a look of dumb astonishment.

  Like a tawny panther rising from its prey, White Apache stood and turned toward the canyon. Raw rage coursed through his veins. Two more men were out there somewhere. Two bounty hunters, scum who had somehow learned about his cousin and made up those fake circulars to lure him into a trap.

  They were going to pay.

  Chapter Twelve

  Amelia Taggart was up before the sun. Taking her handbag and a towel, she slipped from her tent. The camp was quiet. None of the men were up and about yet except Wilson, whose turn it was to keep guard. He sat by the fire, his back to her, his chin bowed, dozing.

  Amelia smiled. It was just as she had planned. She needed some time to herself, and there would be no better opportunity. Hastening to the spring, she went around to the far side where the shadows were deepest.

  Here, Amelia hesitated. She craved a quick bath. Not since Tucson had she washed herself thoroughly, and she was tired of feeling grungy and sweaty all the time. A short dip was all she needed to be fresh and clean, at least until the sun came up and the temperature soared once again.

  Amelia glanced at the gap in the boulders through which she had come. No one had followed her. But she could not help worrying about Stirco. The man had avoided her after she confronted him, but several times she had caught him giving her those same hungry looks. Given the chance, she was sure he would try something. It was up to her to deny him the chance.

  After listening for footsteps, Amelia set the items she carried on a flat rock and swiftly stripped off her dress. Again she hesitated, reluctant to finish undressing for fear of being discovered. But not for long. The tranquil pool was so inviting that she shed her underthings in record time and slipped over the edge. The water was wonderfully, deliciously cool. She sank lower, kneeling, submerging herself to her chin.

  No sounds came from the camp. Amelia smiled, leaned her head back and shut her eyes. The peace, the quiet and the water combined to lull Amelia into feeling momentarily secure. Leaning her head back on the rim, she closed her eyes and willed herself to relax.