Soon Clay Taggart groaned, then opened his eyes. Crackling flames were close to his head, and through them he glimpsed a squatting Apache whom he recognized right away. “Hello, Delgadito,” he said in Apache.
“Hello,” the warrior responded in English.
“Where am I?” Clay asked in that language as he tried to sit up. To his dismay, he was too weak to do so.
“Warm Springs.”
“You brought me all the way here?” Clay twisted his head, saw the narrow valley with its high walls of stone. “How long have I been out?”
“Four sleeps since we bring you.”
“Four days?” Shocked by the disclosure, Clay mustered enough energy to rise onto his elbows. “You’ve been taking care of me all that time?”
“Yes.”
Clay was genuinely touched. No one else would have done such a considerate thing for him, certainly not Lilly or any other white person he knew. “I’m obliged for my life a second time,” he remarked.
“You do for me, I do for you.”
“Maybe so,” Clay said, “but I’m still in your debt.” He hitched at a blanket that had been draped over him.
“I’ll always be in your debt.” His shirt was gone but he still had on his Levis and boots. Bloodstains dotted the top of his pants, stains that recalled the severe whipping, and he reached behind him to gingerly probe his back. He didn’t need to see to know his skin had been cut to ribbons and was badly swollen. But, to his astonishment, there was little pain. He mentioned as much.
“I use herbs,” Delgadito said. “Take away hurt.”
“You did a fine job. Teach me how to use those herbs someday.”
Delgadito looked at the ground so the white-eye would not notice the secret delight he felt. “I will. But you go back once you better, no?”
Clay glanced at the Apache. He hadn’t given any thought to what he would do next, so he said, “I honestly don’t know what I’ll do once I’m on my feet.”
“No hurry,” Delgadito said. Rising, he turned toward the spring. “I get you water, then get food. You must be plenty hungry.”
“Starved enough to eat an antelope whole.”
“You eat, drink, rest,” Delgadito advised. He added, almost as an afterthought, “Soon we go hunt Blue Cap. You stay here, get better, when we are gone.”
Blue Cap. Ben Johnson. Clay stared at the Apache’s bronzed form as Delgadito walked off. The warrior hadn’t said a word about Clay’s former promise to help them get their revenge, yet Clay hadn’t forgotten, and in light of his rescue by the band, he couldn’t deny his obligation any longer.
Over at the spring, Delgadito picked up a gourd and dipped it in the cold water. Cuchillo Negro and Amarillo were seated nearby; Fiero and Ponce were hunting.
“Have you asked him?” Cuchillo Negro inquired.
“He will speak about it when he is ready,” Delgadito responded, raising the full gourd out.
“Why do we need him along?” Amarillo wanted to know. “He will slow us down and get in our way.”
“Would Fiero and Ponce go if I offered to lead us?” Delgadito brought up.
“No,” Amarillo said. “They still do not trust your judgment after you let Blue Cap catch us unprepared at the hollow.”
“But they will follow if Lickoyee-shis-inday leads?”
“They would not be content to stay behind and let a white-eye do that which they should do themselves,” Amarillo said.
“Now you know why we need him,” Delgadito declared. He carried the gourd to Taggart and took his place by the fire.
Clay sipped slowly. Several more gourds were scattered close to the blanket, gourds Delgadito must have used to feed him while he was bedridden. “About Blue Cap—” he said.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to tag along.”
“This is our fight, not yours. You stay.”
“I was there, remember? I saw Johnson’s cutthroats butcher your women and children. I saw babies hacked to pieces, young girls and boys run down and crushed under the hoofs of horses. I saw his men lift the hair of Apaches who were still alive.” Clay rested the gourd in his lap. “It was a massacre, the sort of slaughter Johnson is famous for. And I want to do my part to see that he never does it again.”
Delgadito allowed himself the luxury of a smile. “If you want to come, Lickoyee-shis-inday, then come. You can lead us like last time.”
“Me?” Clay had understood when Deladito requested he lead the raids against the men who had lynched him since he knew most of the ranchers involved and had visited their spreads once or twice. But this was another story. “I’ve never been to Mexico.”
“Not matter. You lead. We help you find way.”
“Your friends might not cotton to the notion.”
“We do good when you lead. Take many horses, many guns. You are good medicine. They like you to lead us.”
“Even Fiero?”
“Fiero always have pepper in blood.”
The description was so accurate it made Clay chuckle. “Yep. I’ve known his kind before.” He took another swallow. “Fair enough. I’ll do as you want. And after we return I’m going to get my own revenge on Miles Gillett.”
“Gillett?”
“The son of a bitch who framed me and is fixing to steal my land out from under me. I need time to think, to come up with a brainstorm to stop him. There has to be a way.”
“This Gillett, one who have you whipped?”
“He’s the one,” Clay rasped. “In his own way, he’s as bad as Blue Cap.” Clay reached over his shoulder and pressed his palm to the lash marks. “I’ll carry his brand for the rest of my days.”
“And woman you wanted to see. Lilly?”
Clay’s features clouded. “She’s a viper too. She used her charms to pull the wool over my eyes. And when I was hanging from that beam like bloody meat, she laughed at me, Delgadito. Laughed until she was red in the face.”
“You kill her too?”
“Kill Lilly?” Clay said, appalled by the suggestion. Killing a woman went against his grain. Despite Lilly’s treachery, he couldn’t bring himself to imagine his hands on her throat.
“She turn on you,” Delgadito said. “She hurt you inside where hurt never heals. She should die like Gillett.”
“I can’t just rub her out,” Clay protested.
“Why not?”
“She’s a female, dang it.”
“Female?”
“A woman. One of the fairer sex,” Clay said.
“I know not all your words, White Apache. What does it matter? Apache women, Apache men, same. Apache woman harm Apache man, she die.”
“I’d rather get even with her another way.”
“As you wish,” Delgadito said, adding yet another weakness to his growing list. Who ever heard of men so cowardly they could not put a wayward woman in her place? Inspiration struck, and he ventured to offer, “If White Apache wants, I will help him. I rub out Lilly for you.”
Not knowing what else to say, Clay replied, “That’s awful obliging. I’ll let you know if I decide to take her life.”
Delgadito grunted. Everything had turned out just as he wanted, and he was extremely pleased. He had the white-eye eating out of his hand, like a camp dog. “I go fix food,” he announced.
“Wait,” Clay said, sitting up. “There’s one thing I’m a mite curious about.” He glanced at Amarillo and Cuchillo Negro. “Don’t think I’m not grateful for having my hide saved, but what the dickens were you doing at my place? Why’d you show up when you did?”
Delgadito had foreseen being asked that exact question and had readied an answer. “You say we welcome to come by for beef anytime for saving you from hanging.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Clay said, and grinned. He owed his life to an offer made on the spur of the moment with no real expectation of seeing the Apaches take him up on it. “Tell you what. Once Blue Cap is out of the way, I might be able to help you get your hands on more
horses and beef than you’ve ever stolen at any one time.”
“That fine,” Delgadito said, then left.
Leaning back, Clay propped his head in his hands and gazed at the beautiful azure sky. Here he was, back among the Apaches. Any man with the brains of a turnip would be terrified to death and anxious to be elsewhere, yet strangely enough, he didn’t feel the least bit afraid.
Clay ran a hand through his tousled hair. As he lowered his arm, he paused, studying his deep tan. He recollected Lilly’s statement about his resembling an Apache so closely she hadn’t been able to tell the difference, and he remembered the picture he presented in the mirror.
Was he turning Indian? Clay asked himself. Did that explain why he felt no fear at being among the renegades again? Was he really dumb enough to believe the Apaches could be trusted? That any one of them wouldn’t slit his throat the moment it suited their fancy?
Sighing, Clay eased onto his side. He didn’t consider himself an Apache, not by a long shot. Circumstances he had no control over were responsible for his being where he was. If he’d had his druthers, he’d be on his way to Montana with Lilly. But it wasn’t meant to be.
Thinking of Lilly brought to mind her betrayal. Should he have seen it coming? Should he have suspected she was leading him on? He’d automatically figured that since he loved her, she loved him. Life didn’t work that way, though, did it?
Clay had to face facts. He had been played for a fool, had made a monumental jackass out of himself. Anger flared, and he thought of how rewarding it would be to get even with the Gilletts, to bring them to ruin as they had ruined him, to have them groveling at his feet, begging for mercy.
But how to go about it? Clay wondered. It was doubtful he could bring it about on his own. Miles Gillett was too powerful, too rich, and had too many gunmen working for him. Clay would need help. Special help.
Clay stared at the Apaches. They were all the special help he would need. Maybe, provided he played his cards right, he could use them to do the job. He still had to work it all out in his head, but there had to be a way to bring Gillett down.
Or was he going at the problem the wrong way? Clay reflected. Shouldn’t he be more concerned about clearing his name than getting revenge? If he could prove Gillett had masterminded a plot to strip him of the Bar T, he could reclaim the ranch and either go on living there or sell out and move to a place where no one knew him, where no one would be laughing at him behind his back for being such a yack.
Clay shifted to relieve a cramp. Everything depended on what Miles Gillett did next. If Gillett went to the law and reported that he was alive and let it be known he was the so-called White Apache, he’d never be able to clear himself, never be able to show his face among white society again.
There were so many things to think about that Clay’s head swam. He wasn’t a deep thinker, never had been. He had no idea which course of action was best. But he had to decide soon. As his father had often said, “Any man who makes it a habit to straddle the fence all the time always walks around with a sore crotch.”
Fiero and Ponce appeared at the mouth of the canyon, a dead buck strapped to a limb carried between them. There was no denying the hostility in the glance Fiero shot in Clay’s direction. Clay ignored the troublemaker and shut his eyes to catch some rest.
The next Clay knew, loud voices had woken him from a brief nap. The Apaches were arguing. Fiero was nose to nose with Delgadito and gesturing excitedly. Delgadito was his usual calm self. When Fiero stopped to take a breath, Delgadito responded in a low, level tone.
Clay had witnessed the same scene too many times to care one way or the other what the argument was about. Fiero was always causing trouble; the man had the disposition of a wildcat. A wildcat with a very short fuse.
Footsteps warned Clay someone was approaching. He glanced up and was surprised to find all five warriors bearing down on him. Propping himself on an elbow, he glanced around, seeking anything he could use as a weapon, just in case. There were only a few small rocks.
“Lickoyee-shis-inday!” Fiero barked. “I would speak with you.”
Clay selected his words carefully and spoke Apache as clearly as he could. “What can I do for the man who helped save me from my enemies?”
“I was not there just to save you,” Fiero responded. “I came because it was a chance to kill white-eyes, and I never pass up a chance to kill your kind.”
“I still thank you.”
Fiero placed his hands on his hips. “Keep your thanks. Delgadito wants you to lead our raid on Blue Cap. I do not think you have earned the right.” He sneered defiantly. “What do you say to that?”
“How do the others feel?” Clay asked.
“We have all agreed except Fiero and Ponce,” Cuchillo Negro answered for the rest.
Clay faced the firebrand. “Who do you want to lead the raid?”
“Anyone besides you,” Fiero said.
“Then you do it,” Clay said, and deliberately laid back down, cradling his head on his arm. A long silence ensued. He didn’t need to look at Fiero to know he had embarrassed the warrior by making the suggestion. Fiero had long aspired to be a leader but his own temperament had stood in his way. None of the other Apaches cared to put their lives in the hands of a man known to be reckless and unpredictable.
“I cannot lead,” Fiero said harshly.
Making a show of impatience, Clay sat back up and pointed at Ponce. “Pick him to do it.”
“The youngest warrior is never the leader of a band,” Fiero said. “It must be someone with experience.”
“Have Cuchillo Negro or Amarillo be in charge.”
“Neither of them wants to.”
“Delgadito, then.”
“He is responsible for the massacre. He cannot lead us again until he has reclaimed our trust.”
“So who is left?” Clay asked, knowing full well the answer. “Me? But you do not want me to do it. So I guess there will be no raid, and your loved ones will not be avenged.”
Fiero squirmed inwardly. Once again he had spoken without thinking, and once again he had made a fool of himself. As much as he despised the fact, the white-eye was the only logical one. “You lead us,” he abruptly declared. Wheeling, he stalked off to be by himself.
The crisis over, the Apaches dispersed. Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro walked toward the cleft, Delgadito scarcely able to hide a grin. He was proud of the way Lickoyee-shis-inday had handled the situation. To be truly great, an Apache had to do more than plunder his enemies without being caught and slay without being harmed, he had to be persuasive in councils. White Apache had proven he had such a rare gift by forcing Fiero to admit the truth, even though Fiero did not want to.
Delgadito looked over his shoulder at the white-eye. He had to watch himself or before he knew it he would develop genuine affection for the man. Already he was thinking of Taggart as an Apache—a bad sign. Delgadito did not dare let himself become fond of the Americano, not when Delgadito might have to kill him later on.
“He did well, the one you have adopted,” Cuchillo Negro commented unexpectedly.
“I do not recall adopting anyone,” Delgadito said.
“White Apache might as well be your son, the way you treat him—”
“I treat him no differently than I do any other white-eye.”
“Any other white-eye would have been long dead,” Cuchillo Negro countered. “I do not know what it is about him, but you like him a lot.”
“Have you been drinking tizwin or mescal and not told anyone?”
“I wish I had been,” Cuchillo Negro said wistfully, “but there is none to be had and you know it.” He caught sight of a hawk soaring high on the air currents and slowed. “You will not admit as much, but you do not regard White Apache as you do most whites.”
“He is a means to an end, nothing more.”
“Lie to the others if you must, but not to me. We have been friends for too long, Delgadito. I know you as well as I know mys
elf.”
“You think you do.”
“I know you have it in your mind to kill him once he is no longer of any use to you. But when the time comes you will not do it.”
“I will do what I must.”
Cuchillo Negro’s eyes sparkled. “Care to wager on that?”
The challenge stopped Delgadito. His people were known far and wide as ardent gamblers, willing to bet on anything and everything, and he was no exception. Many times he had lost practically all he owned on the roll of a hoop or the flip of a card. “What would you wager?” he asked.
“Five good horses.”
“You bet high.”
“And one rifle.”
“Very high.”
“I know I will win.”
“Very well. I accept,” Delgadito said. “But remember whose idea this was. I do not want you to complain when I hold your rifle in my hands while riding one of your fine horses.”
Cuchillo Negro chuckled.
And over by the fire the subject of their conversation looked in their direction, smiled, and waved.
Chapter Seven
In Arizona, and elsewhere in the American Southwest, the Apaches were universally hated and if caught outside the reservations, killed on sight.
In Mexico the situation was much different. One state, Chihuahua, had made peace with the Apaches, going so far as to give bribes in the form of food, blankets, clothing and other items in exchange for being left alone. An Apache could wander into any town in Chihuahua without fear of being set upon and slain.
In the neighboring state of Sonora the exact opposite held sway. Apaches were ruthlessly exterminated, a practice encouraged by the Sonoran government which offered large bounties for Apache scalps. As a result; several roving bands of vicious scalp hunters roamed the arid Sonora countryside year-round, fattening their pokes at the expense of Apache lives.
And not always Apaches lives. Since the government officials overseeing the program had no way of telling a Pima scalp from an Apache scalp, there were widespread rumors the scalp hunters had slain many peace-loving Indians, long friendly to the Mexicans, and claimed the scalps as genuine Apache hair. Although the friendly tribes protested, the state government made no effort to investigate. Sonora wanted the Apaches exterminated at any cost.
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