Delgadito walked to the closest corner and squatted. against the wall, pulling the brim of his hat down low, so no one could see his face. His keen eyes raked the street and found no cause for alarm. He noticed the worried look on his companion and nudged him with an elbow. “Do not be so tense,” he whispered. “You will make others wonder.”
“I’m trying,” Clay said.
“Try harder,” Delgadito directed. He was mildly annoyed that White Apache did not have more confidence in his judgment. They would be all right, as long as they did not make a mistake.
Overall, though, Delgadito had no complaints about the white-eye’s actions since leaving Arizona. White Apache had held his own, had behaved in a manner worthy of a true warrior, and Delgadito took a measure of pride in knowing he was largely responsible for the remarkable change that had taken place. When they had first met, White Apache had not been able to last two days on his own in the wilderness. Now, White Apache could live off the land as well as any Shis-Inday, and was slowly acquiring the skills that would make a seasoned warrior out of him.
Delgadito abruptly realized he had taken to thinking of the white-eye as White Apache and not Clay Taggart. Another bad sign. He was definitely becoming too fond of the man, treating him like an oversized son rather than the enemy that he was. All whites were bitter enemies of the Shis-lnday. Every warrior knew that. So why was he finding it so hard to think of Taggart that way?
Clay could tell his friend was deep in thought and wondered what could possibly be so important at such a time. He cocked an ear toward the two Mexicans. His Spanish was rusty, but he gleaned enough to know they were talking about the current lack of rain and the threat to their crops if they did not get some rainfall soon.
Presently two more men approached. They were greeted by the pair near the door and the conversation turned to the recent raids by Apaches. Instantly Clay’s interest perked up. So did Delgadito’s.
“I have heard the army will send five companies to deal with the savages,” one of the Mexicans declared.
“What good will that do?” responded another. “Apaches are not human. The army will not get so much as a glimpse of them.”
“Si,” agreed the third man. “And have you noticed how when the Apaches are reported in one area, the army goes to another?”
There was laughter, and the first man said, “They say the safest place to be when the Apaches are on the warpath is with a patrol hunting for them.”
More laughter. Then the quartet huddled closer.
“There is word that scalp hunters have been sent from Hermosillo.”
“Which bunch this time? Diaz’s?”
“No. That gringo, the one they call Johnson.”
“Madre de Dios! He is the worst of them all.”
“Si. There is a story that he once killed an Apache woman and made a pouch from her breasts.”
“Did you hear about the time he lined up nine or ten Apache children in a row and then shot the first one at close range to see how many his bullet would pass through?”
“They say his favorite way to kill Apaches is to hang them upside down over a fire and bake their brains.”
“I hope he does not come here. He treats us little better than he does the Apaches.”
“Do not worry. Captain Rivera will not let him abuse us and our women.”
“I guess there is a benefit to having the good captain and his men quartered here. Although it is unfair for us to have to feed and shelter them and not the government.”
“Be quiet, Ramon. Here he comes.”
Startled, Clay Taggart glanced up to see a stiff-backed young officer and a pair of burly soldiers, with rifles, walking briskly toward the cantina.
Chapter Nine
The officer looked directly at Clay, and Clay quickly averted his gaze, afraid the captain would see the color of his eyes and know he wasn’t Mexican or a half-breed. Fortunately, the encroaching darkness worked in his favor. The officer marched into the cantina without so much as a word to the men outside.
Forgetting himself, Clay whispered in English, “We should skedaddle.”
“The soldiers did not notice us,” Delgadito replied in Spanish. “We will stay and learn more.”
“How?”
“By going inside.”
Clay plucked at the warrior’s sleeve as Delgadito rose, but the Apache paid no attention, leaving Clay the choice of following or remaining there by himself. Irritated, Clay pretended to be interested in the wall as he walked to the doorway. The interior was dim, lit by a single lantern hanging behind the bar. Musty odors and low voices filled the room.
Captain Rivera and the soldiers were at the counter and had just been given glasses of tequila. The officer cast a casual glance at the entrance, then tipped his glass to his mouth.
Delgadito made for a secluded table in the darkest corner and sat facing the bar. Clay took a chair on the warrior’s right, rested his elbows on the table, and, without being obvious, checked the patrons to see if any of them were staring. Not one man appeared at all interested in him or Delgadito.
“Be calm,” the Apache whispered.
“What?” Clay said, hearing footsteps. He nearly jumped when a hand fell on his shoulder, and a bored voice addressed them.
“What will it be, senors?”
The barmaid was a plump middle-aged woman whose jowls hung clear past her chin. She made a halfhearted pass at the tabletop with a dirty cloth. “If you are hungry, I can have some enchiladas ready in five minutes.”
“Whisky, por favor,” Delgadito said with hardly any trace of an accent. Most Apaches could speak Spanish to a degree; he was especially fluent.
“Lo mismo,” Clay said softly.
Without further comment she walked off. Clay let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in and glared at the warrior. “You’re plumb crazy!”
“I am not the one speaking English.”
“How do you aim to pay for these drinks?”
Delgadito pressed a pocket and coins jingled. “One of the first lessons I learned about the Nakai-yes was the importance they placed on money. Americanos are the same. They value it more than life, which shows they do not know how to think properly.”
A commotion at the bar drew Clay’s interest. The young officer and an elderly townsman were having a disagreement, their words so loud as to be heard out in the street. All the customers stopped what they were doing to listen.
“I do not care if the government wants us to cooperate with those filth!” the elderly man snapped. “They are butchers, every bit as vile as the Apaches, and the good people of Sahuaripa will have nothing to do with them.”
“When the government gives an order, we must obey,” the officer said.
“You must because you are in the army. But we are private citizens and can do as we damn well please.”
Captain Rivera set down his tequila. “Have a care, Pedro. The presidente would view your statements as treasonous, and you know what happens to those who lose his favor.”
“My tongue will not be stilled!” Pedro said. “It is an outrage that we must harbor such killers! What is to stop them from abusing our women and bullying everyone else as they did in San Rafael?”
“My men and I will see that order prevails.”
“There are only seven of you, and at last report Johnson had nineteen or twenty men riding with him. You will be unable to control him, and we will suffer the consequences.”
“I repeat,” Captain Rivera said testily. “My men and I will control him.”
Pedro made a gesture of contempt and stalked from the cantina. Excited talk erupted in his wake.
“The Nakai-yes,” Delgadito remarked. “They love to chatter like squirrels.”
Their drinks came. Clay sipped his, aware it would be the death of him if he let himself get booze blind and lose control. The drone of low talk and the coolness gradually relaxed him. After a while he cleared his throat and said, “How m
uch longer will we stay here?”
“Are you in a hurry?”
“What else can we hope to learn? It’s bad enough Johnson is on his way. We don’t need more bad news.”
“You forget the reason we came to Mexico. It is good news that Blue Cap is coming. Soon we will avenge our families. Then we can go back to our people with our heads held high.”
“If you still have heads.”
Delgadito pulled his sombrero a little lower. “Why is it you always look at the bad side of things? Are all white-eyes the same?”
“You call it looking at the bad side. I call it being realistic,” Clay said. “You heard that man out front. I’m not partial to ending my days with my brains baked.”
“Blue Cap only does that to Apaches. For you he would probably do something special, such as tie your legs to two horses and have the horses run in different directions.”
“Thanks. That’s a big comfort.” Clay lifted the whiskey, and, as he did, he spied the officer staring in their direction. Involuntarily, he froze. Had the captain observed something unusual about them? He gulped, gritted his teeth as the fiery liquid burned a path to the pit of his stomach, and slid a hand under his shirt so he could grasp a revolver.
Captain Rivera tapped the bar a few times, his features thoughtful. He gave a nod, as if having just made up his mind, and started to advance toward the corner, his men in tow.
~*~
Over an hour earlier, about the same time that Clay Taggart and Delgadito were halfway to Sahuaripa, Fiero had risen below the crest of the ridge and announced, “I will hunt for our supper. Who wants to come with me?”
“I will,” Ponce volunteered.
“Leave the fire to me,” Amarillo said.
Cuchillo Negro made no comment. By the process of elimination he had to stay there and keep his eyes peeled, while the others attended to their tasks.
Fiero hiked westward into a gully. Because the sound of a gunshot could carry far if the wind was just right, instead of relying on his rifle, he picked up a rock the size of his fist. Shortly thereafter, he flushed a rabbit from some cactus. As was often the case with rabbits, this one ran a few yards, then stopped to look back and see if it was in any danger. A single, unerring throw brought it down, and Fiero was on the animal before it could stand and flee. His knife flashed once.
Ponce tried the same trick, but he was younger, less experienced, and he missed. Fiero, ready with another rock, caved in its skull.
Amarillo had a small fire crackling when the warriors returned. Ponce skinned the rabbits while Fiero climbed thirty feet to where Cuchillo Negro squatted.
“Has anything happened?”
“No. They went into the town, and all has been quiet since.”
“That is a good sign,” Fiero said.
“Don’t tell me you are concerned for them?”
“For Delgadito, yes. We do not always see eye to eye, but he is Apache. As for Lickoyee-shis-inday, I do not care if he lives or dies.”
“So you say.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have seen you talking to him more in the past few days.”
“I talk to all of you.”
“You would never speak a word to him before.”
“I talked to a pony I had when I was but seven winters old, but that did not stop me from eating the pony later.” Annoyed that anyone would dare think he could ever like a white-eye, Fiero descended to their camp and was greeted by the aroma of roasting rabbit. Ponce had already carved off a few chunks, poked a sharp stick through them, and propped the stick on a rock, so that the flames lapped at the juicy meat.
Kneeling, Fiero touched a finger to one of the chunks, then licked the blood off. He was ravenous, but he did not let on that he was. From childhood he had been taught to bend his body to his iron will, so no matter how hungry or thirsty he became, he would never show weakness by admitting as much. That was the Apache way.
Fiero was so close to the fire that when his ears registered a snapping noise, he thought it had been one of the burning branches. Then he heard something else, a soft scraping noise from the slope above him, and thinking that Cuchillo Negro had been unable to resist the smell of the food, Fiero twisted to chide him. What he saw brought a shout of warning to his lips, but he was too late.
Out of the twilight they swooped, from all directions at once, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen swarthy men who were on the three Apaches before the Apaches could so much as stand. The warriors tried to bring their weapons into play, but they were buried under an avalanche of pounding arms and driving fists.
Fiero got a hand on his knife, then lost his grip when a pair of hands gripped his arm and tore his fingers loose. Flat on his back, he was hit again and again and again. Helpless to resist, enraged at being taken so easily, he roared like a great, angry bear and tried to heave his attackers off. There were too many. They were too heavy.
The stock of a rifle streaked out of the mass of struggling men and struck Fiero full on the forehead. He sagged, tried weakly to fight back, and lost consciousness.
~*~
Captain Rivera had taken just a few strides when a tremendous racket exploded in the street. There were yells, oaths, and a scream that all mingled with the thuds of many hoofs. The patrons of the cantina rose to investigate. The officer spun, barked a few words to his men, then hastened out.
Delgadito stood and would have joined the mass exodus had Clay not grabbed his arm. “No. This way,” Clay advised, leading the warrior to a side door. In all the fuss they were able to slip out and step to the fringe of the crowd that had gathered. More people were streaming from the church.
The cause of the uproar sat astride a splendid black stallion, a faded Union cap perched at a rakish ankle on his matted hair. A full, greasy beard framed his granite face, from which beady eyes glared at the world. Behind him sat more of his stripe, confirmed killers every one, outcasts who preyed on others for their livelihood.
“Blue Cap!” Delgadito exclaimed.
Ben Johnson was an imposing man. Tall, muscular, and burnt to a chocolate brown by constant exposure to the sun, he appeared as formidable as the Indians he tracked down. Now he sneered at Captain Rivera and said in heavily accented Spanish, “I was told I could expect full cooperation from you. Can I?”
“Si, senor. I have my orders.”
“Good. Then you can sit on the prisoners until morning. I gave my word I’d get them to Hermosillo in one piece, more or less, and I don’t aim to disappoint the governor.”
“You have prisoners?” Captain Rivera asked.
“Three,” Johnson said. “Caught up with them right outside your town, too. They must have been sizing up Sahuaripa in preparation for a raid.” He rose in his stirrups and shouted, “Zapata! Haul their asses up here!”
The foremost scalp hunters moved their mounts aside, allowing Clay to see the captives. He inadvertently gasped and took a half-step, recklessly intent on helping them, but Delgadito’s restrained him and whispered, “We would throw away our lives. Be patient.”
Fiero, Ponce, and Amarillo were all bound at the wrists, their hands behind their backs. As an extra precaution, rope had been looped around their torsos from their elbows to their shoulders. All three warriors bore multiple bruises and smudge marks. Blood trickled from the corner of Ponce’s mouth, while Fiero had a jagged gash on his brow that had stopped bleeding. They were hauled up to Rivera at the end of lariats by three scalp hunters, all breeds. In the lead was a stocky, scarred man who took delight in yanking his lariat so hard that Fiero stumbled and fell.
“Here they are,” Johnson said. “By now I would have had their hair off and their heads roasting over a fire, but the governor wants to make an example of them. There’s going to be a public execution, with everyone in Sonora invited.”
“When will this be?” the officer inquired.
“Just as soon as I get them back to Hermosillo,” Johnson said. “The governor is fixing to send
out an invite to every town in the state. He wants the word spread far and wide so the damn Apaches will hear of it and get the message.”
Clay and Delgadito had to stand helplessly as the three warriors were seized by some of Johnson’s band and taken to a small, windowless shack, into which they were roughly shoved. A carpenter was called for and, on his arrival, instructed to nail a stout board across the door so that it could not be opened from either side. Next, Rivera posted three guards, issuing instructions for them to be relieved in the middle of the night by three others.
With the Apaches safely locked away, the citizens of Sahuaripa were in a festive mood. The curious trailed Johnson and company to the cantina and stood at the windows and door, peering in. The curious men, at any rate, because once it was known that the scalp hunters were in town, every last woman and child disappeared.
In the midst of the excitement, Clay Taggart and Delgadito stood unnoticed, by themselves, under an awning in front of a store.
“What do we do?” Clay asked. He could not quite get over the shock of the Apaches being caught. After all he had been through with them, he tended to regard them as more than human. It was a jolt to be so blatantly reminded they were flesh and blood and not invincible.
“Help them escape,” Delgadito answered. He, too, was shocked; he had not thought anyone capable of taking the band by surprise when they were on their guard. This was one of the few times in his life he did not know what to do next, which was exactly what White Apache was asking.
“How?”
“I do not know yet, but there must be a way.”
“They should be safe until they reach Hermosillo,” Clay said. “Which gives us some time to come up with a plan.” He glanced at the shack and reverted to English again. “I don’t like the odds. Maybe we’ll have to whittle them down before we show our hand.”
“We will come back later. Right now we must leave.”
“What? Why?”
“Do you know how to use your eyes?” Delgadito asked in Spanish. “Cuchillo Negro was not with them.”
An empty side street brought them to the open country flanking the town on the south. In the distance a coyote howled. Behind them raucous laughter and gruff voices rose on the breeze.
Warpath (White Apache Book 2) Page 10