“And that is another thing,” Fiero said. “No white-eye deserves an Apache name. You have broken our custom and insulted our people by giving him one.”
“There is a reason for everything I do.”
“Was there a reason for letting our families be slaughtered by Blue Cap? Was there a reason for making us outcasts? Palacio and the rest of our tribe have not wanted anything to do with us since that scalp hunter took you by surprise.”
“Soon we will be worthy again in their eyes.”
“How?”
“You will see in the fullness of time.”
“All I ever hear from you are words, words, words. What have these raids with your white dog gotten us? How does he fit into your scheme?”
“My counsel is my own,” Delgadito said stiffly. “You would do well to keep your own, unless you are eager to part with your tongue.”
Tension gripped the group. Delgadito had thrown down a challenge, had told Fiero to mind his own affairs or else.
The other warriors fully expected their hot-tempered fellow to leap up and demand to settle the issue in personal combat. Cuchillo Negro put a hand on his knife, prepared to side with Delgadito if anyone else took up Fiero’s cause. Ponce and Amarillo, however, showed no interest in doing so.
For Fiero’s part, he was more puzzled than angry. None of this business with the white-eye made any sense to him, and he was at a total loss to explain Delgadito’s recent actions. But of one fact he was certain. The wily Delgadito never did anything without cause. Among the Chiricahuas, Delgadito’s faculty for Na-tse-kes was almost as legendary as that of the famed Mangas Colorado.
Fiero suspected Delgadito was somehow using the Americano to regain his lost standing in the tribe. But exactly how eluded Fiero. He wasn’t a deep thinker, never claimed to be. He was a man of action and everyone knew it, a man afraid of nothing, happiest, in fact, when facing enemies in personal combat.
No, Fiero was not much of a thinker, so he did not know how to reclaim the general favor of his people, which he longed to do more than anything. While not outcasts in the strictest meaning of the word, Delgadito’s band was shunned by the other Chiricahuas because Delgadito had seen fit to defy the tribal leaders and try to flee into the remote fastness of northern Mexico where Apaches had roamed wild and free from time immemorial. Secondly, and of crucial importance, Delgadito had failed and been cut off and tracked down by a large force of scalp hunters led by the despised Blue Cap, a demon who had taken more Apache scalps than all other whites combined.
Bad medicine, the other Chiricahuas said. Very bad medicine, and they wanted no part of it, no part of the warrior who had brought such calamity on the heads of those who had trusted his judgment and experience. And no part of the warriors who had joined his cause.
Fiero greatly wanted to change their opinion, to show them he had been right in siding with Delgadito, to prove his medicine was as strong as ever. He wanted to reclaim his rightful place as one of the most feared Chiricahua warriors, a man lesser warriors looked up to as courageous and invincible. To do that, Fiero had to rely on Delgadito’s judgment, had to hope Delgadito’s plan worked, had to keep Delgadito alive.
“Were anyone, other than you, to speak to me as you have done,” Fiero now said, “his tongue would be on the end of my knife. But I respect your counsel. If you do not care to talk, I will not press you.” Rising, he walked off.
“I never thought I would live to see Fiero back down to anyone,” Ponce declared.
“He did not back down,” Delgadito said.
“I just saw him,” Ponce insisted. The youngest of the band, Ponce had not yet learned that the testimony of one’s eyes was not always reliable.
“You saw him prove that he can think as fast as he kills, when he has to,” Delgadito said. He walked away, grinning at the whispers that broke out by the spring.
They would learn. Eventually all of them would accept his wisdom without question. If, of course, Lickoyee-shis-inday did not disappoint him. And if he did, then Delgadito’s knife would drink the white-eye’s blood.
~*~
A pink glow painted the eastern sky when the White Apache rode out of the cleft and turned the zebra dun to the northeast. Clay kept glancing over his shoulder to see if the Apaches were chasing him. He couldn’t get it into his head that they were really and truly letting him leave, not until an hour later when he crested a mesquite covered ridge, looked back, and saw no sign of pursuit.
“I’ll be damned!” Clay exclaimed, and cackled for the sheer joy of hearing his own voice. “We did it,” he told the dun. “We’re shy of those pesky red devils once and for all!”
Clay applied his heels to the dun and covered the next mile at a gallop. A great weight had been lifted from his broad shoulders, and he felt so happy he could burst.
All the way to the San Pedro River, Clay thought about his precious Lilly, her lively green eyes, her raven tresses, and full figure. He couldn’t wait to see her again, to hold her in his arms and smell the minty fragrance of her hair. Preoccupied as he was, he nearly made a fatal mistake.
Two days had gone by. It was the middle of the afternoon when Clay glimpsed the blue ribbon of the San Pedro ahead. He hadn’t swallowed a drop since morning, and both he and the zebra dun were caked with sweat. Breaking the dun into a trot, he hastened toward a bend in the river.
A cluster of manzanita was all that separated Clay from the beckoning water when he heard low voices and the creak of leather. Instantly reining up, he slid off the dun, looped the reins to a branch, and moved warily through the manzanita until he obtained a clear view.
A Cavalry patrol had just finished watering their mounts and the troopers were climbing into their saddles. At the head of the patrol a captain sat astride a fine black and was observing. Once his men were mounted, he snapped his arm and barked, “Column, ho!” Swinging the black gelding, the captain rode straight for the manzanita.
Clay spun and raced to the dun, squirming between manzanitas that were closely pressed together, the limbs snatching at his face, cutting his cheeks. He burst free, grasped the reins, and led the horse to the south around the edge of the shrub like trees. He got the horse out of sight in the nick of time. The next moment the patrol swept past the manzanitas and headed out across open country.
Clay watched them leave, a hand over the dun’s muzzle to keep it from nickering. The clatter and the thud of hoofs rapidly receded, and soon the patrol was no more than a cloud of dust in the distance.
Looking down at himself, Clay debated what to do. He had been inclined to go straight to Gillett’s ranch first and seek out Lilly, so anxious was he to see her. But on second thought, he decided to change into his ranch duds before paying her a visit.
After letting the dun drink its fill, Clay found a spot to lay low until sunset. He spent the time sleeping, resting up for the long ride ahead.
To reduce the chance of encountering whites with itchy trigger fingers, Clay had decided to travel at night until he reached his spread. Fording the San Pedro, he struck out to the northwest, relying on every trick Delgadito had taught him to avoid occasional travelers and, once, several heavily burdened wagons lumbering southward.
Clay was in familiar country again. He knew which roads were heavily used and which were not, and he chose the latter whenever he could. Cutting cross-country would have brought him to his ranch much sooner, but he stuck to the roads anyway. The cross-country route was the one an Apache would take, and he wasn’t Apache.
Clay was among his own kind again and glad to be there. He would do things the way they did. The breechcloth, the moccasins, and the headband would all be burned, once he was home. He didn’t want any reminders of his short stay among the savages.
An hour after sunset Clay heard a horse approaching from the northwest. He promptly angled into shrubs bordering the dusty road on the right and bent forward to blend his outline into that of the dun. In due course a lone rider appeared, a cowpuncher b
y the looks of him. The man was whistling softly, riding along without a care in the world. Clay waited, and when the whistling died, he went to resume his journey.
Hoofs sounded to the southwest. A pair of riders materialized, a man and a woman. The man was in uniform; the woman, a long dress and a bonnet.
The sight of the woman stoked Clay’s hunger for Lilly. He stayed where he was, envying the young soldier, and heard their conversation as they slowly passed.
“—had a glorious time,” the woman was saying. “We should go on a picnic again soon.”
“The next time we won’t go so darned far,” the trooper replied. “It’s not safe, I tell you, Vicky.”
Light mirth peeled from the woman’s lips. “Why, Lieutenant Darnforth, don’t tell me you’re afraid of a few measly redskins.”
“You wouldn’t take them so lightly if you’d seen the atrocities they’ve committed, like I have.”
“Tell me.”
“Never. It’s not fit for a woman.”
“Goodness, men can be too protective sometimes.”
“Not where Apaches are concerned.”
“What about the latest rumors? Do you think it’s true, this White Apache story?”
“Must be. Headquarters sent dispatches to all the forts, advising us to make the capture of this man our first priority.”
“I hope you get him, Don. Think how it would look on your record!”
“Whoever he is, I don’t envy him. Every trooper in Arizona is on the lookout for his hide. If he’s caught he’ll be sent before a firing squad.”
“You really think so?”
“That’s the only fate such a traitor deserves.”
“Ooohhhh. Imagine! I hope I get to see it. Wouldn’t that be—”
Clay straightened as their voices faded. He stared at the road a moment, then wheeled the dun and headed cross-country. Mile after mile fell behind him. By the position of the stars and moon, the time was close to nine o’clock when he came to the top of a low hill and set eyes on the valley where his ranch was situated. Far off stood the buildings he knew so well, and he was shocked to see light glowing from the windows of his house.
Someone was there.
Someone who had no business being there.
Clay Taggart worked the Winchester’s lever and galloped down into the valley.
Chapter Four
The frame house had been built in a cluster of trees fed by a large spring. Rafe Taggart, Clay’s father, had found die site by accident. Rafe had been to see John Gillett, Miles’s father, about buying a mule Gillett had for sale, but the mule had already been sold. On the way back to Tucson, Rafe had lost his way, drifting to the south. He’d spied a stand of trees and had gone there to rest in the shade. When his horse wandered off, he’d gone after it and found the animal drinking from the spring, which, at the time, was concealed by a large, dense thicket. In a country where water was more valued than gold, Rafe had done what countless others had dreamed about doing. Since no one owned the land, Rafe claimed it for himself and moved his family out the very next day.
Clay had many fond memories of the homestead and those eventful early years. He passed a certain tree as he approached the house and recalled the rope swing his father had made for him. Nearby was the stable in which he had spent many hours playing as a boy. His roots were here. This was the one parcel of land he loved more than any other. And it galled him that someone had seen fit to trespass, to make himself at home in his house.
A brown mare stood hitched at the rail. Clay halted beside the stable, slipped silently to the ground, and stepped to the corner. A shadow played briefly over the window in the front room, the glimpse too fleeting for him to note details.
Clay dashed to the west side of the house. The mare looked at him but, thankfully, did not act up. Once he had his back to the wall, he inched onto the porch, the Winchester clasped in both hands, a finger on the trigger. At the window he dropped to a knee and peeked over the sill. The curtains were parted a crack, and he could see the person bustling about within.
“Lilly!” Clay breathed, an electric ripple of joy shooting down his spine as he beheld the woman he loved carrying an armload of his clothes to the mahogany table. She had her lustrous hair up in a bun and wore a fetching blue dress sporting a big bow at the back.
Elated to find her there, Clay so forgot himself that he ran to the door, worked the latch, and threw it wide. Lilly whirled on hearing the sound, her features locking in a mask of total terror, her skin blanching. She dropped the clothes, pressed her hand to her mouth, and screamed.
“It’s all right! It’s me!” Clay cried, or tried to, for the woman he so adored swooned before he could get the words out. In two strides he was there, dropping the Winchester and catching her before she could strike the floor.
“Oh, dearest,” Clay said fondly, drinking in her creamy complexion, the swell of her bodice. Her warm breath fluttered on his face as he carried her to the settee and tenderly deposited her.
Clay stroked her smooth forehead and couldn’t resist pressing his lips to hers. She groaned, as if in the grip of a nightmare. Leaning the Winchester against the arm of the settee, he ran into the kitchen, grabbed an empty jar sitting on the counter, and went outside to the well his father had dug so the family would not have to drink from the same water as the stock.
It took but a minute to lower the bucket down and fill the jar. Then Clay sped back into the house, through the kitchen to the front room, and drew up in consternation on discovering Lilly had revived, taken his rifle, and was almost to the front door. At his entrance, she swung, bringing the Winchester to bear.
“Lilly, it’s me! Clay!” he shouted.
Utter astonishment etched Lilly’s lovely face. She recoiled as if she had been slapped but did not lower the rifle. “Clay? It can’t be! You’re dead! Miles told me that you were killed by Apaches!”
“Do I look dead to you?” Clay responded. He took a stride, stopping abruptly when the Winchester leveled at his midsection. “What’s the matter with you? You should recognize me, even the way I’m dressed.”
Lilly Gillett appeared on the verge of tears. She slowly let the rifle barrel fall and said, “It is you, isn’t it? Oh, God! It is!”
Clay ran to her, embraced her, hugged her so hard she gave a little gasp. “Lord, how I’ve missed you,” Clay said in her ear. “Many a night I lay awake thinking of you and dreaming of this day!”
For a while neither of them said a thing. Then Lilly pushed back and stared intently at him, studying him from head to toe. “I thought you were an Apache when you came through the door. Figured my time was up.” She touched his cheek, his chin. “The sun has about burned you black. Where have you been? What really happened?”
“There’s so much to tell I don’t rightly know where to begin,” Clay said, savoring the closeness of her, the scent of her skin.
“Start with after you shot Boorman, after you left me.”
Clay guided her to the settee and set the rifle aside. She listened attentively as he told about his flight after slaying the hired gun, about the posse that showed up at his spread within the hour, about his flight to the southeast, to the Dragoon Mountains. “That’s where they caught me and did this,” he said, tilting his neck so the scar was conspicuous.
“You poor dear,” Lilly said. “Yet you got away?”
In brief Clay related his rescue by the Apache band, the subsequent battle with the scalp hunters, and how he had fled deep into the Chiricahuas with Delgadito.
“So you’ve been with those red vermin all this time?” Lilly interrupted. “What have you been doing? How did you get away from them?”
“To answer your last question first, they just let me ride off.” Clay paused, wondering if he dared reveal the rest. Lilly had a gentle disposition and might not approve.
“Were you their prisoner?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We had an
agreement,” Clay explained. “I offered to lend them a hand if they would lend me one.”
“I still don’t understand,” Lilly said. “In what way?”
“Ben Johnson, the scalp hunter, killed their kin. I agreed to help them track Johnson down and, in return, they agreed to help me pay back the bastards who hanged me up to dry.” Clay paused. “I never did go through with my end of the bargain.”
“Pay back—?” Lilly said, her eyes widening. “That was you? You killed Jacoby and Prost?”
“You’ve heard about them?”
“Everyone has. The Tombstone Epitaph ran an account of the Prost raid just the other day. Every last hand was killed.” Lilly shook her head in reproach. “How could you, Clay? How could you be party to such infernal butchery?”
Clay frowned. “You can ask me that after all we’ve been through? All I’ve been through.”
“It’s wrong, wrong as sin. I want your word that you won’t kill anyone else until we’ve had a long talk.”
“I didn’t come all this way to flap my gums,” Clay said angrily. “I came back to take you away. We can start over, Lilly. Move to Montana, where no one knows us, and build a ranch together. Or we can go to California, if you like. Miles will never find us.”
“Oh, Clay.”
“Say you’ll go,” Clay urged. “We can leave before midnight. I’ll take you back so you can pack a small bag and slip out after Miles is asleep. By first light we should be halfway to the border.”
“What a marvelous idea,” Lilly said, covering his hand with hers, “but I can’t leave so soon. Give me until tomorrow morning.”
“Why? What difference does it make?”
“By the time I get home it will be very late. Miles will expect me to come straight to bed, so I’ll have no time to pack. And if I sneak out of bed later, he might wake up. He’s a very light sleeper. We can’t afford to make him suspicious.” Lilly squeezed his fingers. “I know how to get away without any fuss whatsoever. Early tomorrow morning Miles is going out to inspect some cattle, and after he leaves I’ll pack and come right over.”
Warpath (White Apache Book 2) Page 4