Chapter Eleven
The Chiricahuas were not the only ones who heard the din of the aborted battle.
Clay Taggart reined up sharply and twisted in the saddle. He had ridden about a mile south from the campsite with Maria’s horse and the pack animal in tow.
The crackle of gunfire puzzled Clay. A good judge of distance, he knew that the gunfire came from the vicinity of the abandoned camp. But he was at a loss to explain it.
The only possibility that made any sense was that the rest of the patrol had arrived on the scene and tangled with Delgadito and company, who must have shown up after he’d left. Yet even that scenario was highly unlikely since Delgadito wasn’t fool enough to tangle with a large patrol unless the odds were stacked in his favor, and from the sound of things half the Mexican army was involved.
Clay shrugged and rode on. He was too far away to be of any help even if Delgadito were involved, and he had a pressing matter of his own to deal with, namely recapturing Maria Gonzalez.
He had to hand it to her. She had more grit than he had suspected, and she was almighty clever, to boot. While he had been occupied with the four soldiers, she had fled, but not just in any direction. She had waded into the Rio de Bavisque and hurried off, sticking to the middle of the river, where no one could track her.
Clay had been stumped for a minute, unable to decide which way to go. Maria could have gone north or south. But the latter seemed his best bet since it would take her closer to civilization instead of back toward the Sierra Madre Mountains.
After the shooting died down, Clay clucked his horse into motion and continued searching. Finding Maria in the dark with no tracks to go by was akin to finding the proverbial needle in a haystack, but he was not about to give up. Not because he wanted her as his captive so much as he was concerned for her safety. The wilderness was no place for a green snip of a woman who wouldn’t stand a chance if she ran into any of the many beasts, both animal and otherwise, that roamed the vast untamed region.
The notion that he might care enough to be bothered about her welfare disturbed Clay. It went against all his Apache learning to give a hoot for a captive. A warrior was expected to steel his heart to his enemies, and technically Maria was an enemy of the Chiricahuas.
Maybe the problem, Clay reflected, was that he wasn’t as much of an Apache as he liked to think. Maybe the values of his white upbringing were too deeply ingrained for him to become just like a full-blooded warrior. Maybe, when all was said and done, he was just kidding himself.
The snap of a twig off to the right brought Clay out of his pensive state. Reining up, he listened, but heard nothing. Nor was there any movement in the brush bordering the river. Maria might be crouched twenty feet away and he would never know it.
In recent months Clay had learned that to survive in the wild a man had to rely on more than logic and common sense. Often intuition played a hand in whether someone lived or died. A man might be approaching a narrow draw and get a bad feeling about the place, or be riding along and have an uneasy feeling that he was being watched by hostile eyes. Those who failed to heed such feelings sometimes paid a fatal price.
Now a feeling came over Clay, not one of impending danger but a conviction that Maria was indeed hidden in that patch of brush and that if he went on by he would never find her. Acting on the impulse, he wheeled his horse and jabbed his heels. The animal snorted as it pounded up the bank and barreled into the vegetation.
Clay rode a score of yards, but flushed nothing. He slowed down and was turning to go back when a slim shape exploded from concealment less than five feet away. Releasing the lead rope, Clay gave chase. He saw her pale face when she glanced back and heard her cry of dismay.
Bending low, Clay pulled alongside of Maria and tried to grab her arm. She veered aside. He narrowed the gap again, but this time when he leaned over, he shoved off and tackled her on the fly. They tumbled, winding up with her on top of him.
“I won’t let you take me!” Maria said, swinging her small fists. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of being recaptured after all the trouble she had gone to. She had pushed herself to the point of collapse. All her muscles ached. And in order to travel faster, she had removed her shoes back at the camp. Consequently, her feet were caked with mud and badly cut from the sharp stones on the river bottom and the thorny brush.
Maria had been congratulating herself on her escape when she’d heard a horse splashing down the river. Bolting into the brush, she had squatted, confident the White Apache would be unable to find her. But he had.
Clay Taggart had a frenzied wildcat on his hands. He seized her wrists and heaved to his feet, nearly losing an eye when she lunged, her nails raking his cheek and drawing blood. “Calm down, damn it,” he said. “I’m not about to hurt you.”
“I won’t go! I won’t!” Maria said, kicking at his shins.
“You don’t have a choice,” Clay said. He winced when pain shot up his right leg. “It’s for your own good. You wouldn’t last two days out here by yourself.”
One moment, Maria was struggling and kicking. The next, she collapsed, falling against him, her tears turning into a torrent as all that had happened since her abduction finally took its belated toll. She had tried to be strong for as long as she could. Having her hopes dashed was the last straw.
Clay held her loosely, not quite sure what he should do. Half of him wanted to hold her and assure her that she would be just fine; the other half wanted to slap her around and tell her to quit being such a baby. He did neither. Instead, he waited while she cried herself out.
“You fit to ride now?”
Maria nodded dumbly and permitted him to lead her to his horse. She was thrown into the saddle and the horse was led to the river. There Taggart transferred her to the mount she had been riding before. She heard him urge her to hang on tight, but she didn’t care whether she stayed on or not.
Life was too ridiculous for words, Maria decided. What had she done to deserve such misery? How could there be a loving God, as the priests claimed, if people were allowed to suffer so? Did it mean there wasn’t a God? Or did it simply mean that God gave men the will to be good or evil as they chose and it had simply been her misfortune to fall into the clutches of the wickedest of all?
Maria was too dazed to think much. She half wished she would die right then and there to spare herself further grief. Life seemed pointless. She would never see her mother and father again, never see their hacienda. So many things she had taken for granted would be denied her forever.
Clay Taggart glanced back when his captive gave a stifled sob. He was going to tell her to be quiet, but suspected his harsh words would make her cry harder.
The strip of brush along the river was too thick to suit Clay. He was constantly detouring around thickets and briars. Swinging to the west, he entered a line of trees. Far to the north lay Caliente Springs, where he was supposed to rendezvous with the Chiricahuas. He figured he would have to go even farther west in order to avoid whoever had done all the shooting; then he’d circle around to Caliente Springs.
For long minutes they heard nothing but night sounds: The chirp of crickets, the hoot of owls, and the squeak of a bat. All of a sudden, though, the woodland became as silent as a tomb.
Halting, Clay fingered his Winchester. Such profound quiet was unnatural. Predators were near, either animal or human.
The creak and jingle of tack told Clay which. He spotted riders moving along the Rio de Bavisque, five or six of them in all. He could not make out much detail, but he knew they weren’t Apaches. The riders were seventy yards away, so there was a very small risk of being discovered.
Clay went on once the men were out of sight, but the woods did not come back to life, as they should have. He was extra vigilant from then on, so he heard the next batch of riders long before he saw them.
There were five, heading south to the west of the trees. Clay saw that they would pass within fifteen feet of where he sat, so he moved a
mong a cluster of willows. Maria was slumped over, her long tresses hiding her features. He was glad that she wasn’t more alert or she might have yelled to attract them.
Their dusty uniforms stood out against the backdrop of night. Now Clay had part of the answer, and it was an answer he didn’t like. How many more groups of soldiers were in the area? And who were they after?
The second bunch had gone by and Clay was raising his reins to go on when that which he had suspected would happen did. Maria had seen the troopers and raised her voice loud enough to be heard clear down in Mexico City.
“Soldiers! Soldiers! Help me! The White Apache has taken me captive!”
Cursing, Clay fled, hauling hard on the lead rope. Coarse shouts confirmed the soldiers were in pursuit. Clay skirted a log and dashed between two willows. To the rear a carbine blasted and the slug bit into the willow on the left.
Clay was in a tight spot. Outrunning the soldiers was a hopeless proposition, what with him being slowed down by the other two horses. Nor would it be smart to make a stand. In addition to being outnumbered, he never knew when Maria might turn on him to keep him distracted so the troopers could finish him off.
Another complication reared its ugly head when from the northeast a man shouted in Spanish, “This is Major Filisola! We are on our way, Sergeant!”
Soldiers were all over the place. Clay cut to the northwest, pushing the horses as best he could. The crack of branches and the thud of hooves warned him the first bunch of soldiers were getting too close for comfort.
Shifting, Clay banged a shot at a vague target and was rewarded by a yelp of agony and the crash of a body hitting the ground.
Striking northward again, Clay sought to outdistance the rest, but it was as he had thought it would be: they gained rapidly. And all the time, bearing down on him from the northeast, came the major and more troopers. He had to trust in luck and pray the soldiers would lose interest if he could give them the slip.
Unknown to Clay Taggart, Major Vicente Filisola was not about to ever lose interest. Not only was he anxious to save the señorita of his dreams; he was eager to avenge the death of a man he had looked up to as the best military mind in the Mexican Army.
Colonel José Gonzalez had been shot smack between the eyes by an Apache lurking in the dark. He had died instantly, his mouth slack, his tongue lolling. The colonel had resembled a poled ox more than a distinguished commander.
The camp had been in an uproar. Enraged troopers had rushed every which way, seeing targets that weren’t there. Filisola and Mora had rallied the panicked men and organized a thorough search of the immediate vicinity, but found no trace of the shooter.
There had been that one shot, no more. The two majors agreed that it had to have been the work of Apaches, who had melted into the night as silently as they had come.
But Filisola was not to be so easily thwarted. As senior officer, he had ordered a sweep of the area for miles around, with the goal of flushing the Apaches into the open. Deep down, he’d doubted it would produce results. Then, to his fierce delight, he had heard the sweet voice of the colonel’s niece. Nothing short of death would stop him from saving her. In the bargain he would put an end to the depredations of the White Apache.
Clay Taggart had no idea he was up against four dozen vengeful soldiers spread out over a five miles radius. To him they were ordinary troopers, and ordinary troopers more often than not would run from Apaches rather than tangle with them.
From the sound of things, Clay knew the two groups would soon be on him. He had to act and act fast or he would never get revenge on Miles Gillett. He would die there by the Rio de Bavisque, unmourned, his body left to rot.
It would be a cold day in hell before Clay let that happen. Plunging into thick timber, he drew rein and jumped down. Maria attempted to resist when he grasped her wrist and pulled, but she was too weak and weary to keep from falling next to him. Streaking out his Bowie, he cut the lead rope to both her horse and the packhorse.
“What are you—” Maria said.
“Quiet,” Clay said and rapped her lightly on the skull with the hilt of his knife. She slumped, dazed but not unconscious. Quickly Clay seized the bridle to her animal and swung it around so that it faced due south. Then he positioned the packhorse, facing it due north. The animals stood tail to tail.
Sheathing the Bowie, Clay stepped between the horses. He gave her mount a resounding smack on the rump, pivoted, and did the same to the pack animals. They promptly snorted and sped off, making as much noise as a herd of buffalo.
Clay crouched beside Maria and gripped the reins to his horse so it wouldn’t get it into its head to join the others. He watched the other animals break from the timber and listened to yells from the soldiers and the boom of guns.
Would they take the bait? That was the crucial question. Clay observed horsemen racing in both directions and heard someone shout orders.
Clay stayed put until the hoofbeats faded. His ruse had bought some time, but not much. It wouldn’t be long before the soldiers caught the riderless horses and realized they had been duped.
Hooking an arm around Maria’s slim waist, Clay slung her onto the saddle as if flinging a sack of grain. He held her up with one hand while mounting in back of her. Then he turned to the west and departed.
So far, so good, Clay thought. Major Filisola and his men were being led on a wild-goose chase. If he could reach the foothills, he’d lose them. He selected grassy tracts that muffled his animal’s tread and shied from open spaces.
More shouting filled the air, from the southeast this time. More troopers were coming. Clay angled to the southwest. He rode half a mile without encountering another soldier. Evidently his quick thinking had bailed his hide out of the fire.
Presently Clay looped toward the northwest. His original destination was the same. Delgadito would be waiting for him at Caliente Springs.
Three shots broke the silence. Clay surmised it was a signal but he had no inkling for what. Coming on mesquite, he prodded his horse into a trot. Maria swayed, still woozy, her shoulders bumping his chest. He thought that he heard her mutter a few words.
By all rights Clay should have been a bundle of nerves. Clay Taggart, the rancher, would have been. But Clay Taggart, the White Apache, found himself thrilling to the challenge of outwitting a company of soldiers. He exercised caution as an Apache would, relying on the skills he had honed under Delgadito’s tutelage.
Some minutes passed before the wind brought him the sounds of three more pistol shots, the same signal as before, only farther away.
Taggart barely slowed down. He was positive he had given the soldiers the slip. By his reckoning he was well to the northwest of the river and could slant to a more northerly heading anytime he wanted.
“Please let me go.”
The soft appeal caught Clay off guard. “I thought you were out to the world.”
“Please,” Maria said. “This is my last chance. You are my only hope.”
“Then you don’t have any hope,” Clay said testily and regretted being needlessly cruel.
“What manner of man are you? You have turned your back on everything you knew and sided with the bitter enemies of your people. You have killed many innocents. And now you would send my soul to a living hell. Why? What have I ever done to you?”
“You ask too damn many questions.”
Maria felt more tears fill her eyes and blinked them away. The time for tears was past. She must use her wits as she had never used them before. Appealing to his greed had not worked because he was one of those rare men who did not value money. But perhaps appealing to his conscience would have the desired effect. Buried somewhere under that hard exterior must be a shred of compassion. There had to be!
“You told me that you loved a woman once.”
“I don’t care to talk about her,” Clay snapped. The reminder seared a red-hot branding iron of remorse into his gut.
“It’s not her I want to talk about. I
t’s love,” Maria said. “Any man who can love another can’t be all bad. You must have some decency left inside of you. I’m appealing to that decency. I’m begging you to let me go before we rejoin the Apaches.”
“I can’t.”
Maria turned, her face inches from his. “Why must you be so stubborn? Why do you always let your pride stand in the way of doing that which you know to be right?”
“Be quiet.”
“I will not,” Maria said, defying him. “Not when all I hold dear is at stake. Didn’t you have a mother and a father? How can you tear me away from mine? My mother will go crazy with grief. My father will wither away little by little. And all because you are playing at being an Apache.”
Clay resisted an urge to smack her. “I’m not playing. The Apaches are my pards.”
“Maybe so, but the truth is that they are Apaches and you are not. No matter how long you live among them, no matter how many of their ways you adopt as your own, deep inside you will always be white.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Being an Apache is more than dressing as they do and living as they do. I could never expect you to understand because I reckon I don’t know quite how to put it into words. It has to do with thinking like them, with knowing that you’re at the bottom of the barrel and have nowhere to go but up.”
“And that gives you the right to go around killing people as you see fit, señor? That gives you the right to kidnap women who have never done you any harm?”
Clay cocked his head to listen. It was a grave mistake to let her divert his attention when there might be soldiers within earshot but he could not bring himself to clip her on the jaw.
“Can’t you answer me because you know that you are in the wrong?”
“Who’s to say what’s right and what’s wrong anymore?” Clay said. “I figured that I knew once, and then my whole world was turned inside out. My woman turned on me. My friends turned on me. Even my government turned on me. And it taught me a valuable lesson.”
White Apache 5 Page 12