White Apache 5

by David Robbins

  Fiero uttered his customary snort. “We do not need to think like whites to defeat them. They conquered us because they have more men and more guns. All we need to rise up against them are more warriors who think as we do and more guns. It’s as simple as that.”

  Cuchillo Negro rose and stepped into the sunlight. He knew it would be a waste of his time to argue the point with the firebrand, and he doubted very much that Ponce would come around to his way of thinking either. But he had hoped Delgadito would agree since, of them all, Delgadito was the deepest thinker. Maybe Delgadito did, he mused, but was unwilling to admit it.

  As the warrior idly surveyed the horizon he glimpsed a pinpoint flash of light, then another and another until there were dozens, like stars sparkling low in the daytime sky. Only Cuchillo Negro knew better. At a low call from him, the others came into the open.

  “Nakai-yes,” Delgadito said. “Soldiers. Many soldiers.”

  “They must be after us,” Ponce said.

  “If so, they will never catch us,” Fiero said. “The day I cannot elude a whole army of Mexicans is the day I take up basket weaving.”

  Delgadito had been studying the position of the pinpoints. “It is not our trail they follow,” he said. “They are too far to the east.”

  “It does not matter,” Cuchillo Negro said. “They are coming straight toward this hill. We must not be here when they arrive.”

  “So what if we are?” Fiero said. “The Nakai-yes have the senses of rocks. They will never spot us.”

  “But their horses might pick up our scent,” Cuchillo Negro said. “And the four of us would be no match for as many soldiers as there appear to be. I, for one, do not intend to throw my life away needlessly.”

  Hefting his Winchester, Cuchillo Negro jogged to the bottom of the hill and swung to the northwest. They would be at Caliente Springs by morning; there they would rest up during the day. If Clay did not show by sunrise, the others would want to press on across the border. And he knew of no way to dissuade them.

  Clay had better show up on time or he would find himself on his own.

  ~*~

  The gurgle of rippling water brought Maria Gonzalez back to consciousness. She lay still, trying to recall where she was and what she had been doing last.

  In a rush of harrowing memories, Maria remembered being taken captive by Apaches, fleeing with the bandits, trying to escape, and being hit by Vargas. She also recollected the attack on the camp and confronting the White Apache. Then what had happened?

  “You can open your eyes if you wish. I have coffee ready.”

  Maria realized that there was indeed a strong scent of boiling brew in the air. The delicious odor made her stomach growl and her mouth water. She opened her eyes and saw the White Apache seated across a small fire from her, his elbows propped on his knees.

  “I treated your wound with a poultice.”

  Reaching up, Maria found a crude compress on her head. She probed with her fingertips, assuring herself that she wasn’t bleeding any longer. Encouraged, she went to sit up but was overcome by a wave of dizziness, not to mention intense pain in her back and her temple.

  “I’d take it easy if I were you,” Clay said. “You’ve been out for the most of the day but I doubt you’re well enough yet to travel.”

  “Half the day?” Maria said. A glance to the west confirmed the time. It also showed that they were in the shade afforded by a grove of cottonwoods on the bank of a narrow, shallow river. “Where are we? What happened to your four friends? And what do you plan to do with me now?”

  Clay leaned back and arched an eyebrow at her. “You’re welcome.”

  “What?”

  “Where I hail from, it’s polite to thank folks who have pulled your fat out of the fire. If I hadn’t come along when I did, those bandits would have had their way with you and sold you to Comanches.”

  It would never have occurred to Maria that a man reputed to be a bloodthirsty renegade could have his feelings hurt by a failure to show proper gratitude, but that was the impression she had. “My apologies,” she said stiffly. “I do thank you for what you’ve done, but I can’t help but suspect you had an ulterior motive. You want me for yourself.”

  Clay bent forward to pour coffee into a battered tin cup he had found in the saddlebags of the bandit who had tried to bushwhack him. “I stole you from your parents. That makes you my responsibility.”

  “I thought as much,” Maria said in contempt. “You did not go to so much trouble on my behalf.”

  “As for your questions,” Clay said, “we’re camped next to the Rio de Bavisque. My four friends, as you call them, wanted nothing more to do with you. And my plan is the same as it’s always been. I aim to take you to Arizona Territory.”

  Maria closed her eyes, despondent. It seemed her grueling ordeal would never end. She was losing hope that she would ever see her mother and father again. Twisting her head, she looked down at herself and felt tears well up. Her clothes were in the worst shape of any clothing she had ever worn, and she was no better off. Dust clung to her from head to toe. Dried blood clotted her hair and stuck to her tattered dress. She was in dire need of a bath. If she had the choice, she would have given anything to be back on the family hacienda attended by her devoted servants.

  Clay Taggart noticed the señorita’s sadness, but did not let on. Regret came over him, regret which he promptly shrugged off. He had no business feeling sorry for her. A true Apache wouldn’t, and he was trying to pattern his behavior and attitudes after those of his Chiricahua pards.

  He carried the cup around the fire and handed it to her without saying a word. Her eyes lingered on him as he took his seat.

  “May I ask you a question?” Maria asked.

  “I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

  Cradling the cup gingerly, Maria took a few short sips and sighed as the hot brew washed down her throat. “I would very much like to know why you are the way you are. Once you mentioned getting revenge on someone who had wronged you. Does it have something to do with why you have taken up with Apaches?”

  “You want my life’s story, in other words,” Clay said dryly. “Sorry, ma’am. I happen to believe that a man’s past is his own business and no one else’s. If you’re digging for something that would get me to change my mind about you, you’re plumb out of luck.”

  “It must be nice to know everything,” Maria said, acid in her voice.

  “I wouldn’t last very long if I was an idiot,” Clay said, leaning on an elbow and taking a sip from another cup. It had been a while since last he had enjoyed coffee and he had forgotten how well it hit the spot after a long day in the saddle.

  “I would guess you have a lot of hatred pent up inside of you,” Maria said.

  “Why? Because I kidnapped lovely women?”

  “Because you will let no one get close to you except your Apache friends. It is as if you have built a wall around yourself so that none can see into your soul.”

  Clay said nothing. He had to hand it to her though. For such a young filly, she was terribly shrewd—and desperate. She would do anything to keep from being taken across the border, and he made a mental note to watch her closely from then on out.

  Weakness put a stop to Maria’s chatter. She finished half the cup, then set it aside and lay back down. She needed her wits more than ever, and they were denied her by the severe loss of blood she had suffered. A good night’s sleep would restore some of her strength but it was too early to doze off and she did not want to anyway.

  Horses nickered nearby. Maria turned her head and saw three tied to cottonwoods. She toyed with the idea of sneaking to them after dark, but doubted her nerves would be equal to the occasion.

  As if the White Apache could read her mind, he said, “Don’t be getting any silly notions, señorita. Were miles from nowhere and it would be easy as pie for me to catch you again.”

  Clay slowly polished off the cup and refilled it. Coffee was a luxury he wasn’t a
bout to pass up. The Chirichuas had little use for it. They’d drink it on occasion, but they weren’t addicted, like most whites. Delgadito’s bunch even refrained from mescal and tizwin, hard drinks most Apaches favored.

  As Clay drank, he thanked Lady Luck for smiling on him back at the bandito camp. He had intended to stay there the whole night through, but then had taken to thinking about the pair who slipped away. It wouldn’t have been at all out of character for the murderous twosome to circle around and shoot him. So he had saddled three horses, loaded as many supplies as he could onto one, draped the woman over another, and ridden off.

  He hadn’t traveled more than a quarter of a mile when the night had rocked to rifle fire. The bandits had done just as he’d figured they would. He’d grinned, wishing he could have heard their lusty curses when they had aired their lungs over his absence.

  Clay had given the bandits the slip, and he could relax until he was reunited with Delgadito. Well, not relax entirely, he mused, since he was in a region where bandits were as numerous as fleas on an old hound dog. Plus there was the threat of scalp hunters, scum paid by the Sonoran government to exterminate any Apache caught south of the border. They earned their bounty by showing Apache scalps as proof of their performance. And the government didn’t care if the scalps were those of warriors, women, or children. So long as they were Indian scalps, the scalp hunters received their blood money.

  Which had created a new problem in itself. Scalp hunters were not notorious for being the most scrupulous of men. When Apaches were scarce, they took to killing any Indians they could find. Friendly tribes such as the Pimas and Maricopas lost many of their number who went off to hunt or fetch water or gather roots and were never seen again. It took a while for the friendly tribes to put two and two together, and henceforth they never went anywhere except in numbers sufficient to deter the greedy scalp hunters.

  A faint sound brought Clay’s reverie to an end. It was so faint that for a full ten seconds he wondered if he had really heard the dull thud of a hoof. Then he heard another and knew someone was sneaking up on their campsite from the southeast.

  Rolling to his feet with the Winchester in hand, Clay peered through the cottonwoods and spied several riders approaching. He had been careless! He had gone and built the fire too big, a mistake no true Apache would ever make. The column of smoke was probably visible for miles.

  Clay had to think fast. There was no time to put out the fire, hide the charred limbs, load up the gear, and get the hell out of there.

  Maria, he saw, had fallen asleep. He took a step closer to awaken her, but changed his mind. It might have been a blessing in disguise.

  Quickly Clay melted into the cottonwoods and knelt in a clump of brush. The four riders were close enough to note details. Their dusty uniforms revealed they were soldiers. Since there were too few to constitute a patrol, Clay deduced they had been sent on ahead of a large column.

  As Clay watched the troopers warily approach the camp, he studied them as would an Apache, noting which one was the most alert, which appeared the most dangerous, which would be the easiest to slay. He stopped thinking like a white rancher and instead thought like a Chiricahua warrior.

  When the patrol drew rein a few dozen feet from Maria, it was not Clay Taggart, rancher, who raised a rifle to his shoulder, but Lickoyee-shis-inday, Apache.

  A corporal led the patrol. He had spotted Maria, and it was clear that he did not know what to make of the situation. To find a woman sleeping peacefully by herself in the middle of nowhere was not a common occurrence.

  The corporal whispered orders. All four soldiers dismounted. Fanning out, they converged on the camp, moving slowly, raking the undergrowth for evidence of hostiles.

  Clay let them come nearer. He was so well hidden that they would have to be right on top of the bush to notice him and he was not going to let them get that close. Since the corporal was the one the others would rely on in a crisis, he targeted the corporal first, centering the sights squarely on the man’s torso.

  But as so often happened in life, the unexpected reared its head in the shapely form of Maria Gonzalez, who choose that particular moment to snap out of her slumber. Whether she heard or sensed the soldiers, she sat bolt upright, and on seeing them she screeched in Spanish, “Look out! The White Apache is here!”

  The corporal dropped into a crouch just as Clay applied pressure to the trigger and the bullet took off the man’s hat instead of his head.

  The bush hid the muzzle flash but the four soldiers had a good idea of where the shot had come from and they cut loose with military precision.

  Slugs zipped past Clay, clipping the bush, nicking an arm. He tracked the corporal as the man rose and ran to Maria. She started to rise, her hand reaching for the corporal’s. Clay drilled the man as their fingers touched.

  Maria’s scream rivaled the din of the gunfire.

  Shifting, Clay shot a second trooper. The last two elected to preserve their lives and sprinted toward their horses. Clay elevated the Winchester.

  To a Chiricahua, horses were animals. No more, no less. They were not viewed as pets, never regarded with affection. More often than not, horses were eaten. Every boy knew that to become attached to one was the height of folly.

  Clay Taggart had been reared differently. As a rancher, he had ridden horses daily and worked with them from dawn until dusk. There had been several he had liked immensely.

  But since he had joined with the Apache, Clay had learned to harbor no such sentiments. Horses were horses, and in this instance, when they were the means his enemies would use to bring even more enemies, they had to be dealt with accordingly. In rapid order he dropped three of them with slugs through the head. The fourth, however, heard its fellows whinny as they fell, and it fled.

  The two soldiers were left stranded. One darted in among the trees. The other whirled and fired at random, a man whose reason had been replaced by riveting fear.

  Working the lever, Clay aimed and fired. He had such confidence in his marksmanship that he didn’t wait to see if the man went down, but leaped to his feet and raced after the soldier who had fled.

  Crashing in the growth ahead told Clay which direction to take. Like a black-tailed buck he bounded through the cottonwoods at a speed no white man or Mexican could equal. But the soldier was fleeing for his life, and fright was known to lend strength and speed to ordinary limbs. It took over a minute of hard running before Clay spied his quarry. The soldier also spied him.

  Clay had to throw himself to the ground as the trooper’s carbine cracked. Flipping to the right, he rose and went to fire but the man had already whirled and run off. Too many trees were between them.

  Swinging to the north, Clay pumped his legs, taking a course parallel to that of the soldier. He had gone over fifty feet when he realized the cottonwoods had fallen completely silent. Instantly he stopped and crouched.

  The soldier was crafty. He had gone to ground in the hope of flushing the White Apache out.

  It wouldn’t be that easy, Clay reflected as he stalked to a tree with low limbs. Climbing ten feet, he paused. From there he had a bird’s-eye view of the area where he had last seen the trooper. The man lay in high grass, facing toward the camp, the carbine tucked to his shoulder.

  Clay braced the barrel of his Winchester against the trunk, held the bead steady for a three count, and fired. The slug penetrated the rear of the soldier’s head and exploded out from his forehead in a rain of flesh and brains.

  Jumping down, Clay made for the camp. He didn’t know how close the main column was and had to consider the likelihood that the shots had been heard. It was imperative he get the woman out of there.

  There was only one problem.

  When Clay emerged from the vegetation at the edge of clearing, he discovered that Maria Gonzalez was gone.

  Chapter Ten

  Their camp had been established for the night. The horses had been tethered and perimeter sentries posted.

 
; Colonel José Gonzalez and Captain Mora were seated by one of several fires, drinking coffee and discussing the route they would take the next day, when one of the sentries yelled that a horse was fast approaching. Moments later a riderless horse burst into the encampment and halted, its sides heaving.

  Soldiers leaped to their feet, carbines at the ready. The colonel and his aide rushed to the horse and Captain Mora seized the reins. But there was little chance of the animal running off. It was too exhausted to lift a leg.

  “This is one of ours,” Mora said, smacking the regulation-issue saddle. “But whose?”

  “I recognize the blaze on its chest,” Colonel Gonzalez said. “This is the mount issued to Corporal Hidalgo. He was sent ahead to see how close we are to the Rio de Bavisque. He must have been ambushed, either by bandits or the Apaches we are after.” Spinning, the colonel rasped out orders. “Break camp immediately! Douse those fires! I want every man mounted and ready to ride in five minutes.”

  A flurry of activity ensued as every man rushed to obey. Unlike lazier commanders, who were content to spend all their time behind their desk while their men languished in barracks, Colonel Gonzalez drilled his troops daily. There was no more efficient unit in all of Mexico, which the men proved by being in the saddle in the time stipulated.

  Colonel Gonzalez swung into the leather, rose in the stirrups, and whipped his arm forward. Captain Mora issued the order to move out, and forty horses were rapidly brought to a canter.

  They wound northward along a dusty ribbon. Mora stared at the inky sky and said, “Would it not have been advisable to have waited until morning, Colonel? We cannot see a thing in this soup.”

  “The missing troopers are all that matter. Some of them might still be alive,” Gonzalez answered. “Always put the welfare of your men above all other considerations, Captain. It is the earmark of a genuine leader.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree, sir. But how will we locate them if we cannot track them?”

  “We will trust in Providence. If nothing else, even if we do not find any trace of them, we will have done our duty. Our men will respect us for that. And never forget that earning the respect of those you command is the first step toward earning their loyalty.”