Delgadito was unwrapping the bundle when Clay walked over. Inside were various plants, some Clay had never seen before.
“Herbs for a poultice?”
“Poul-tice?”
“Something to put on his wound to make him better.”
“Yes.”
A fire was built, a tiny one hidden by a ring of stacked rocks. Delgadito hurried away, showing up presently with a crude bowl carved from tree bark. Into this he mixed pieces of the plants, adding water and mashing them to the consistency of a thin paste. This was applied liberally to Cuchillo Negro’s head. “Now we wait,” Delgadito said.
“What about the others?”
“We must think of a plan to save them,” Delgadito said. “In the morning. We need rest.” So saying, he reclined on his back, covered his eyes with an arm, and fell asleep instantly.
Clay gawked, dumfounded the warrior could sleep so effortlessly with them in such a fix. He tried to follow the warrior’s example but was too high-strung to nod off. Rising, he walked along the rim of the bluff, admiring the heavenly spectacle. Once he located the North Star, he had a fairly good idea of where they were and wasn’t taken aback when he spotted the lights of a town to the northeast. The crafty Delgadito had brought them nearly full circle, to within a mile of their previous camp site. The town was Sahuaripa.
A shooting star flared in the sky to the southeast, arcing earthward in a blaze of light. Clay watched and recalled an old family belief that shooting stars were a good omen. He hoped so. The way things were going, he could use all the luck thrown his way.
At last Clay felt tired enough to lie down. Cuchillo Negro was sleeping peacefully and did not feel warm to the touch. Clay made a mental note to ask Delgadito more about the plants used in the poultice in the morning.
It was a hand on Clay’s shoulder that awakened him. As he opened his eyes, another hand covered his mouth and lips touched his ear.
“Make no noise, White Apache. Some of Blue Cap’s men are very close.”
The sky to the east bore pale shades of pink, showing that dawn was not far off. Clay got on his hands and knees and crawled beside Delgadito to the north rim. He could see Sahuaripa in the distance, smoke curling lazily from a number of the buildings. Below the bluff was something he had not spotted the night before: the road to Hermosillo. Six scalp hunters had stopped there so one of their number could check a shoe on his mount. Their voices were borne upward by the breeze, faint but understandable.
“—wouldn’t want to be the redskins who killed Jessup and Blyn when Johnson gets ahold of them.”
“Yep. Did you see his face when that smart aleck officer told him we must not be as tough as everyone thinks?”
“Lordy. I figured he was fixin’ to tear into that upstart and have him for breakfast.”
“He got even, though. That officer ain’t none too pleased about havin’ to help.”
One of the riders glanced at the man checking the shoe. “Are you done yet? Hell, we could have made a new one and put it on by now.”
“Come on, Stevens!” prompted another. “We got us a wide area to search and we have to be back in Sahuaripa by noon.”
In moments they were on the road westward.
Delgadito squatted and watched the dust cloud recede. Most of the words he had understood, and he had learned enough to deduce that most or all of the scalp hunters and the soldiers were out hunting for them and would be out hunting until midday. And if that were the case, only a few men had been left in town to guard the prisoners. There would be no better time to try and rescue them. “I must go,” he announced, easing back from the edge.
“Go where?” Clay inquired.
Delgadito explained while wiping dust from the rifle he had taken from the scalp hunter he had killed the night before.
“It’s too risky a proposition for just one man,” Clay protested. “Both of us should go.”
“One of us must stay with Cuchillo Negro.”
Clay looked at the wounded warrior. Delgadito was right. But only Delgadito knew enough about herbs and healing to help Cuchillo Negro. “You’re the one who has to stay with him. I’ll go instead.”
“Why you?”
Clay told him, adding, “They might be expecting a stunt like this so they’ll be on the lookout for anyone who looks suspicious. Since I don’t have a lick of Indian blood in me, they won’t pay me any mind.”
Delgadito did not like the idea even though it made a lot of sense. “You would do this thing for Fiero and Ponce, who do not like you all that much? For Fiero, who would have killed you if not for me?”
“I gave my word back in the States, and I aim to stand by it,” Clay said. “I’ll settle with Fiero, once and for all, after we’re out of this mess.”
“You are a good man, Lickoyee-shis-inday,” Delgadito said, and meant it. His people, by their very nature and upbringing, were inclined to put their own welfare above all other considerations. Self-sacrifice was rare. For a man to risk his own life to save others was viewed as foolish. Any warrior who died on the field of battle so that others might live was mocked. Delgadito, himself, was willing to go into town after the three warriors simply because if they died he would never be able to regain a position of leadership among his people. The raid must be a success. Every last warrior must return alive.
As Delgadito watched White Apache prepare, he began to realize that there was more to the white-eye than he had believed. The man was willing to sacrifice himself for his enemies. Such a startlingly new concept made Delgadito’s mind whirl. And, despite himself, he felt his respect for the white man growing by leaps and bounds.
Had Delgadito been privy to Clay Taggart’s thoughts, his admiration would have dimmed. The sole reason Clay had volunteered was his conviction that without the help of the captured men the band stood little chance of reaching the border alive. There was strength in numbers; they needed to be at full strength to prevail over the scalp hunters.
Presently, Clay jogged eastward. He went on foot to reduce the odds of being spotted, using the terrain as the Apaches would, avoiding open tracts where possible. Acting on the assumption the scalp hunters and soldiers were off in the hills, he paralleled the road where the going was easy. Twice he had to hide when riders appeared. Both were Mexicans on their way to Hermosillo.
Clay found the spot where their clothes were hidden without difficulty. Screened in a thicket, he donned the pants, shirt, poncho, and sombrero. This time, rather than leave the rifle behind, he wrapped it in the serape Delgadito had worn. The gun under his arm, he then hiked into town.
Tantalizing food smells filled the air. Few people were as yet abroad. A dog walked stiff legged toward Clay, its neck hairs bristling, but ran off when Clay kicked dust at it.
By taking one side street after another, Clay went to the north side of the shack in a roundabout manner. There were only two guards, both soldados, who were having a hard time staying awake. Apparently they had been on duty most of the night.
Clay hunkered down at the corner of a building and pondered what to do. He had to dispatch the guards quietly to gain time to cut the three warriors loose. Otherwise, the enraged Mexicans would be on them in a flash. And he had to do something soon, before the citizens of the town were out and around.
One of the guards said something to the other and walked away. The remaining soldier commenced walking around the shack, rifle angled over a shoulder.
Clay waited until the first guard was out of sight and rose. He guessed the man had gone to relieve himself or to buy breakfast. In either event, Clay didn’t have much time. He ambled toward the shack, making a show of not being the least bit interested in it. When the remaining soldier disappeared around a corner, Clay ran to that corner, unwound the serape from his rifle, tossed the serape aside, and then hurried to catch up with the soldier so he could slam the rifle stock on the man’s head.
His plan had just one unforeseen flaw.
The soldado had turned arou
nd and was walking toward him.
Chapter Eleven
To the soldier’s credit, he did not question Clay’s identity or ask what he was doing there. The soldier took one look at the rifle and brought his own to bear.
But before he could fire, the White Apache was on him, swinging his rifle in a powerful arc. The stock crashed onto the soldier’s skull, and the man dropped and lay as still as death with blood seeping from his split skin. Clay did not waste time checking to see if the soldier were still alive. He had a more important task to perform.
Dashing to the door, Clay pried at the board with his fingers. It didn’t budge so he drew his knife and wedged the tip underneath it. Prying vigorously, he worked the right end of the board outward. The nails rasped loudly, and he glanced around to ensure no one had overheard.
That was when Clay saw the boy. A child of nine or ten was gaping at him as if he were the Devil incarnate. He offered a friendly smile and went back to work. A minute later, the boy was gone.
Clay swore and redoubled his efforts. The boy was bound to spread the alarm. In two to three minutes the area would be swarming with armed men.
Once Clay got his fingers under the board and braced a leg against the wall so he could exert more force, the board came off quickly. Clay threw the door wide and said, in Apache, “Come out! Hurry! They will be on us soon!”
Fiero stumbled through the doorway first, blinking in the bright sunlight. The others followed. All three were smudged with dirt.
“You!” Fiero exclaimed. “I thought it would be Delgadito or Cuchillo Negro.”
“No time to explain,” Clay said, slashing the ropes that bound the firebrand’s arms. Next he cut the ropes around Fiero’s wrists and shoved the knife into Fiero’s hands. “Here. Do the rest while I keep us covered.”
Angry shouts indicated a mob was on the way. Clay darted to the nearest junction and saw a score of armed men advancing. The little boy was among them. On spying the White Apache the mob let out a collective howl and ran forward, but only a few yards. Clay whipped his rifle up, and they all made for cover. One snapped off a wild shot.
Clay hurriedly backpedaled to the shack. Fiero had freed Ponce and was working on Amarillo. Ponce suddenly shouted and pointed to their right. Spinning, Clay saw the other soldier, just as the man fired. The slug buzzed past, smacking into the shack. Clay responded without thinking, and his aim was more accurate.
“Which way?” Fiero cried.
Breaking into an eastward run, Clay turned right and sprinted between a pair of buildings. At the far corner he stopped and glanced toward the main street. The mob was regrouping. Taking a breath, he sped across the next street to the building beyond. The Apaches tried to cross without being seen too, but only Fiero had made it when vicious shouts erupted and the mob surged toward them.
“Run!” Clay bellowed, doing exactly that. His sandals slapped the ground so hard his soles stung. He discarded the sombrero and shrugged out of the uncomfortable poncho. Three more dusty streets were crossed; then open country lay before them.
Clay slowed down, motioning for the warriors to precede him. They took off like antelope, making for a hill to the south. Clay glued his eyes to the street they had vacated, and, moments later, the mob appeared. To discourage his pursuers, he snapped off a shot over their heads. It would have been child’s play to drop one or two, but if he fired into their midst he risked hitting the little boy.
The mob scattered, men diving for shelter wherever they could find it. One man dove through the open window of a house, and there was a strident scream.
Clay congratulated himself. The rescue had gone much better than he had expected. The Apaches were safe and unharmed and none of Sahuaripa’s citizens seemed interested in giving chase. Then Fiero shouted and pointed to the west. Shifting, Clay felt his blood chill and aired his lungs a blue streak.
Five scalp hunters were bearing down on them at a gallop. Every last man had his rifle shucked, and each seemed eager to be the first to drop one of the warriors.
Clay slanted to the right to put himself between the cutthroats and the Apaches. The range was too far for a precise shot, but he fired anyway, elevating the barrel a bit to compensate. No one was more surprised than he was when one of the killers flew from the saddle as if smashed by an invisible fist. The rest immediately looped to the north.
The Apaches reached the hill, raced up and over. Clay wondered if they were deserting him and didn’t hold it against them if they were. In their eyes he was a hated white-eye, nothing more. Expendable, as the army might say. But he was sorely disappointed. He’d expected better treatment after pulling their fat out of the fire.
Running smoothly, Clay received a second surprise at the top of the hill. The warriors were crouched on the other side, awaiting him.
Fiero, grinning fiercely, yipped and declared, “That was a fine shot, White Apache! I have never done better myself!”
About to admit that it had been a sheer fluke, Clay changed his mind. He had been trying too hard for too long to earn their respect. So what if he had killed that hard case more by accident than design? The only way to impress Apaches was to prove their equal—or their better—in things that mattered most to them, such as warfare. “One less killer of Shis-Inday women and children,” he said modestly.
“Where is Delgadito?” Ponce asked.
“Waiting for us,” Clay answered, “but we must be careful not to lead the scalp hunters to him. Cuchillo Negro is hurt and cannot be moved.”
“What would you have us do?” Fiero asked. “You have done well, and I, for one, will do as you want.”
Clay would not have been more shocked if the Second Coming had just taken place. To hide his astonishment, he busied himself passing out weapons: a pistol to Fiero, a pistol to Amarillo, and his knife to Ponce. “I’ll need them back later,” he said. Stepping to the crest, he discovered the scalp hunters were now to the northeast, circling the hill slowly.
“Come,” Clay said, pivoting on a heel. He sprinted down the slope toward the highland, where they would find sanctuary. Once they lost their pursuers he would guide the warriors to Delgadito.
The killers had other ideas. They came around the hill on the east, staying just out of rifle range, dogging the band.
Clay stared at them, gauging whether to try another shot. Suddenly he noticed there were only three men, not four. Where was the other one?
A puff of dust to the west provided the answer. The last man was on his way to find Ben Johnson and the rest of the scalp hunters.
“Damn!” Clay snapped.
The Apaches looked in the same direction and came to the same conclusion. They picked up the pace without being asked to do so, impervious to the blistering sun that baked their tanned forms.
Clay paused twice, once to remove his shirt, the other to remove his baggy pants. It felt wonderful to be in his breechcloth again, to feel the wind on his body. He would have discarded the sandals, too, except his soles were not as accustomed to traveling over rough terrain as were those of the Apaches.
For the better part of an hour the stalemate held. The trio of scalp hunters made no rash attempts to stop the Apaches. They were content to hang back and await reinforcements.
Clay began to think he had spared the warriors from one grisly fate only to place them in graver jeopardy. Ben Johnson might not be so inclined to capture them alive a second time, governor or no governor. All the scalp hunters needed to do was completely surround the band, then converge all at once. The Apaches—and Clay—wouldn’t stand a chance.
The attitude of the three scalp hunters changed when the mouth of a narrow canyon appeared and their companions had not. Goading their mounts, they tried to get ahead of the escapees and cut them off.
Clay understood their intent right away. Tucking the rifle to his shoulder, he took deliberate aim on the lead rider and fired. This time he wasn’t quite so lucky as before: he missed the rider, but accidentally hit the man’s hors
e.
Whoops burst from the Apaches when the scalp hunter and his mount tumbled, the animal to lie motionless, the scalp hunter to jump erect and scream curses at them.
Fiero shouted back, “That is how real men fight, you dogs!” Turning, he bent and exposed his backside. “And this is what I think of you, your mothers, and your fathers!”
The insult further enraged the man whose horse had been shot. He began firing madly, but the slugs all fell dozens of yards short, swirling puffs of dust into the air. When the rifle was empty, one of the others rode up and offered a hand so the shooter could swing up behind his saddle. Then the three men rode to the west.
The Apaches laughed, treating the episode as a fine joke. Clay didn’t share in their mirth. It had delayed them, and any delay was costly if it gave Johnson the time he needed to catch up.
On reaching the canyon Clay felt more optimistic. The Chiricahuas were born and bred in mountains and could cover mountainous country on foot faster than white men could on horseback. He led them higher, stopping often to scan their back trail. To his delight, the scalp hunters did not show.
The course Clay had chosen brought them out of the canyon on its south rim. Here he had to decide whether to press on deeper into the mountains or to bear toward the northwest to the bluff. The matter was taken out of his hands when the sharp-eyed Amarillo gave a yell of warning.
A large group of riders was on the west rim, approaching rapidly. Seconds elapsed; then a second group materialized on the east rim.
Clay went higher, intentionally crossing boulder fields and going through thickets, instead of around. He used any trick that would give the horsemen grief, but his ruses proved unsuccessful. Slowly, but surely, the scalp hunters narrowed the distance.
On a switchback covered with pinon trees, Clay halted to rest. The scalp hunters were half a mile below, walking their mounts.
Warpath (White Apache Book 2) Page 12