Warrior Born (A White Apache Western Book 3)

by David Robbins

  “Packed her off to Tucson, so she wouldn’t be in danger.”

  Vasquez rested his elbows in front of him. “A wise decision, Senor Denton. This Taggart is ruthless.”

  “He’s scum,” Denton said. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when a white man would ride with a pack of miserable Apaches. When we catch him we should do to him what those mangy Injuns have been doing to our kind for years.”

  Vasquez pushed back his sombrero. “My employer wanted me to assure you he will do all in his power to help you. That is why he sent us.” He paused. “Tell me. How many hands do you have?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “That give us twenty-six guns, if they will all fight.”

  A rangy cowpoke leaning against the far wall stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean, mister? There ain’t a one of us who wouldn’t lay down his life for Harve and Priscilla. They’re decent folks and have always treated us right.”

  “I meant no insult,” Vasquez said tactfully. “The reputation of the Box D hands is well-known.”

  The rancher stalked to his chair. “What I want to know is how we’re going to stop this so-called White Apache, and stop him for good. If Miles is right and I’m next on his list, it’s our responsibility to make sure Taggart’s rampage ends here.”

  “There are several ways to proceed, senor,” Vasquez said. “We can try to figure out which way they will come and set up an ambush—”

  “To hell with that notion,” Santee scoffed. “In case you haven’t noticed, Vasquez, Arizona is a huge territory. We couldn’t cover all the ways here if we had the Fifth Cavalry to help out. Besides which, Apaches ain’t partial to stickin’ to trails.”

  “He’s right,” Denton said.

  “I was about to point out the same thing,” Vasquez said stiffly, peeved at being treated like a greenhorn by the gunman.

  Santee gave a light laugh. “Who died and put you in charge? The boss picked me as I recollect.”

  “We’re to work together,” Vasquez reminded him.

  “You’re both wrong,” Denton interjected. “This is my spread, my life we’re talking about. I’m in charge of this here operation and if either of you don’t like it, skedaddle back to Miles right this minute.”

  “No one is tryin’ to steal your thunder, Harve,” Santee said, although, in truth, it bothered him to have to take orders from someone he hadn’t hired out to.

  “Good.” Denton removed his cigar again. “Now the way I see it, we have to set a foolproof trap for these red varmints. From what Miles heard, Taggart and his pet Injuns snuck into Jacoby’s and Prost’s homes and killed them right there. I figure we can use that to our advantage.”

  “How?” Santee asked.

  The rancher elaborated. At the conclusion, he folded his arms and ventured, “What do you boys think?”

  “You’re an hombre after my own heart,” Santee said, chuckling. “They won’t be able to Indian up on us no matter how they try. Why, there won’t be one of those polecats left alive.”

  “I like your idea too, senor,” Vasquez said. And he really did. There was little risk to the men and scant chance of anything going awry. He could almost feel his bonus bulging in his pocket.

  “The only question is how long we have to wait before they show up,” Denton remarked. “I can’t keep my hands on night duty for too long. The ranch work won’t get done.” His attention drifted to the rangy cowpoke. “Bart, I want a skeleton crew riding day herd until further notice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And tomorrow I want you to take the buckboard into town and stock up on ammunition. While you’re at it, fetch home a few more Winchesters.”

  Billy Santee gleefully smacked the table. “It’ll be like shootin’ paper targets in a shootin’ gallery! Too bad I can’t add notches for no-account redskins.”

  ~*~

  Many miles away Clay Taggart was busy gathering wood for the bonfire to be built for the war dance, when Delgadito appeared.

  “We must talk, White Apache.”

  “About the way I acted up today?”

  “About the raid.”

  “What’s there to palaver about? Who leads? Hell, if you want to, go right ahead. I never feel comfortable being head man anyway.”

  Delgadito had another subject in mind but the mention of leadership struck a profound chord. “This Apache thinks you joke with him. Most men would be happy having others do as they say.”

  “Maybe so,” Clay said, while picking up a suitable broken branch. “But every herd has a few contrary steers who like to go their own way.” Which was true to a point, but only partly applied to Clay. Deep down he would have to confess that he did like having five fearless warriors at his beck and call. It was akin to having the power of life and death over everyone in Arizona since, at a word from the him, the Apaches would attack anyone he chose. But he owed too much to Delgadito to hog the top spot if Delgadito wanted it.

  “Why you not feel comfortable?” the warrior wanted to learn.

  “Because it’s like having a tenderfoot lead a pack of salty dogs on a roundup.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Stopping, Clay said, “Compared to you, I know next to nothing about living off the land. You can hunt better than I can, fish better, track better. You know which plants are good to eat, which aren’t. When you have to you can move as quietly as a ghost. And your senses are a heck of a lot sharper than mine. Add to all that the fact you know more ways to kill a person than I can even think of, you can see why having me lead is a lot like having the cart lead the horse.”

  “You are too hard on yourself,” Delgadito said, picking his words with care. “Lickoyee-shis-inday is much better than he thinks.”

  “I appreciate the compliment but it just ain’t so,” Clay disputed him. “If you’re partial to leading, be my guest.”

  “No,” Delgadito said. “The others picked you. They like you. They say you do good job.”

  Cuchillo Negro’s statement came back to Clay. “Are you sure they didn’t pick me because you told them to?”

  “My words would fall on deaf ears,” Delgadito lied with a straight face. “They no longer do as I say, not since the massacre. They not trust me anymore. Say my judgment bad.”

  “I can set them right if you want,” Clay proposed. “You’ll do to ride the river with in any man’s book.”

  “Riding the river is good?”

  “Very good.”

  Although Delgadito was at a loss to explain the connection, he accepted Taggart’s word and went on to the matter that had brought him over. “Do you remember our first raid together?”

  “How could I forget? Jacoby was the first bastard to pay for lynching me.”

  “But you changed your mind about killing him. You were going to let him live after all we had gone through to get you into his—” Delgadito stopped, about to say lodge. “Into his house.”

  “I wasn’t thinking straight,” Clay excused his conduct. “Jacoby and Prost were the only two members of the posse I knew halfway well. We used to drink together, play cards on occasion. Rubbing them out wasn’t easy.”

  “And this time? This Denton? You change your mind about him, too?”

  “I see what you’re getting at,” Clay said. “You’re worried I’m a mite paperbacked, that I don’t have the backbone to do what has to be done.” He shook his head. “Well, don’t you fret none, pard. This time will be different. Harve Denton and I never did see eye to eye. He’s a pushy cuss, likes to boss folks around. And I’ve never been one to take a shove without shoving back.”

  “So you kill this one no problem?”

  “You bet your life I will. I could understand Jacoby and Prost turning on me because they were plumb scared of Gillett. But Denton isn’t scared of no man. He didn’t have to help string me up if he didn’t want to.”

  The fire in the white-eye’s tone was unmistakable. Delgadito grunted. “This is good to hear. When a man has
enemies, he should kill them and be done with it.” Looking down, he spotted a solitary beetle scuttling across the ground. Grinning, he planted his foot on top of the insect and heard the distinct crunch. “Like so.”

  ~*~

  That night the Apaches stripped to their breechcloths and painted their bodies, each according to his personal taste. Then they gathered at the fire for their war dance, a ritual they went through prior to every raid, a dance designed to bring them good medicine while on the warpath and to insure that each and every one of them returned safely. Clay Taggart had witnessed one of these dances before. He’d marveled at their lithe, flowing movements, and felt his blood pulse to the beat of their drum and the rasp of their rattles. He had felt strongly tempted to join them but had held back for fear of violating a tribal taboo.

  This night was different. As the Apaches formed a circle around the fire, they were joined by a white man dressed as they were, his body painted With long white stripes that lent him an eerie aspect in the flickering firelight. No one objected. No one chided him for overstepping the bounds of custom. They accepted him as one of their own.

  Overhead a full moon beamed down on the barbaric scene. The fire was allowed to blaze high because it was a special occasion and they were safe in their sanctuary. Amarillo beat his drum skillfully, the tempo hard, driving, intoxicating. Ponce and Fiero shook rattles in perfect rhythm.

  Their agile bodies glistening, their muscular legs stomping in regular cadence, the warriors wound in a precise pattern. As a ritual, the dance had to be done just so, and each man knew his part. They spun and whooped and chanted, building to a frenzy, showing by their actions how they would slay the many foes they would face.

  And foremost among them, whooping the loudest and leaping the highest, dancing the hardest of them all, was Lickoyee-shis-inday, the White Apache. He did not feel awkward or out of place because he was a white man. He did not feel silly taking part in a custom his people had branded primitive. On the contrary, White Apache reveled in the celebration. He thrilled to the movements, embracing the dance heart and soul.

  To all intents and appearance, there were not five Apaches and one white man taking part that night.

  There were six Apaches.

  Chapter Seven

  Apaches usually conducted their raids on foot. To greenhorns the idea seemed ridiculous until they learned that full-grown warriors could cover seventy-five miles in a single day and do it faster than horses.

  Clay Taggart didn’t share the Apache preference for foot travel. The months he had spent in their company had hardened his body to the point where he was in superb physical shape, the best condition of his whole life. Yet he still found keeping up with Delgadito and company to be trying and tiring.

  So, on this third raid in the vicinity of Tucson, Clay decided to take mounts. Fiero and Ponce grumbled but had to go along with the idea since they wanted Clay to lead.

  Astride a fine zebra dun, the White Apache led his small band from their remote retreat. They rode out of the depths of the Chiricahua Mountains, northward through Apache Pass, then westward to the Dragoons, stopping at Dragoon Springs a whole night to refresh their horses and themselves. It was twenty-eight miles from the springs to the San Pedro River, which they reached before noon of the next day.

  Clay would have liked to lay low in the dense manzanita until nightfall and then go on, but they were now in country where they might encounter whites at any time and his Apache companions had an aversion to fighting at night—an aversion he had been working hard to make them overcome.

  Consequently, after a short stop to water their mounts, the band was on the go again, sticking to rough country where cover was readily available. Once they saw a column of smoke in the distance which they wisely skirted. Another time they saw several wagons lumbering southward toward a common crossing at the San Pedro. Fiero was all for killing the muleskinners and taking whatever plunder the wagons contained, but Clay reminded him they had business elsewhere, and if they attacked now and somehow the alarm should spread, the man they had come to kill would be forewarned.

  As it turned out, Clay had decided wisely because not ten miles farther on they spied a cavalry patrol and immediately sought shelter in the heavy brush. Amarillo went alone to spy on the patrol and was to report back right away if the troopers were coming in their direction. When he finally showed, it was to relay the news that the patrol had ridden southward and would not cut their trail.

  From here on out Clay proceeded cautiously. He had been in the area before but only a few times; his own ranch was much farther north. He knew the Box D lay in a spacious, verdant valley about thirty-five miles from Tucson. If he could locate Webber Creek, he could follow it into the valley, but he was unable to recollect the exact location of the creek.

  A chaparral-covered rise gave Clay a vantage point from which to survey the countryside. Pinpointing the creek was child’s play; any year-round ribbon of water in that arid land was bordered by trees nearly its entire length. The creek turned out to be southwest of their position.

  Once there, Clay entered a small forest of mesquite and secreted their horses in a suitable clearing. They double-checked their rifles and pistols, tightened their moccasins and adjusted their headbands, and were off, gliding like antelope toward the valley.

  Clay was in the forefront, doing his best to move quietly. Every so often a twig would crackle under his feet, and he would flinch in embarrassment knowing full well the Apaches never made such blunders. But then, they had a lifetime of experience. He was just learning.

  Presently, Clay detected the rattle of wagon wheels and motioned for his band to seek cover. Snaking toward the noise on his hands and knees, he parted high weeds and discovered a rutted dirt road that wound through the mesquite. A buckboard occupied by two cowboys was headed into the valley. They were joking and laughing. Green canvas had been spread over the bed, no doubt to screen their cargo from the blistering sun.

  On an impulse, Clay moved closer to the road and shadowed the punchers. They were as rock headed as he had once been and were paying no attention to the vegetation around them.

  “—that Carlotta is some woman, Bart,” the smallest of the hands was saying. “The next time we go into Tucson, I figure on askin’ for her hand in marriage.”

  “Has the sun baked your brain?” the rangy Bart responded. “You can do better than her, Tom.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Bart gave the reins a halfhearted flick. “I don’t rightly know how to put this other than to come right out and say what we both know to be true.” His pause was perfect. “Carlotta is a whore.”

  “If’n we wasn’t pards I’d shoot you.”

  “What are you so tetchy about?” Bart demanded.

  “Carlotta ain’t no whore.”

  “I don’t know what else you’d call it when a woman has taken money from half the male population hankering for the privilege of lifting her petticoats.”

  “So what? People change.”

  “Not her.”

  “What makes you so all-fired sure, Mister-Knows-Everything?”

  The wagon covered a dozen feet before Bart answered. “Don’t it strike you as peculiar that a gal as enthusiastic about her work as Carlotta would be ready to call it quits?”

  “Enthusiastic how?”

  “Don’t you recollect that time she took on five punchers at once just to prove she could?”

  “One time.”

  “And the night she bet fifty bucks she could handle more men in one hour than any other gal there?”

  “She was drunk.”

  “And the week that convention came to town and she wasn’t off her back once?”

  “Shut up, Bart. You’re depressin’ me.”

  “Sorry pard. You’ll feel better when your hangover goes away.”

  “Hope so. And Bart?”

  “What?”

  “The next time I come up with one of these harebra
ined notions, you have my permission to wallop me over the head as hard as you can with a singletree.”

  “Will do. But I reckon the boss won’t like having his singletree bent.”

  Clay stopped shadowing them, convinced he was wasting his time. They were a harmless pair of cowhands, not worth bothering, and he hoped they wouldn’t get in his way when he went after Harve Denton.

  The Apaches flanked him. Clay motioned and trotted deeper into the valley, angling to the north, away from the road. Rolling grassland soon replaced the mesquite. Snaking into the grass, he avoided clusters of cattle as he made his way toward structures a mile off. Occasionally, a cow would lift its head from grazing to watch them go by. He only saw one bull which he diligently bypassed.

  Stealth required they move slowly. Brilliant hues of pink and yellow blazed in the western sky, heralding sunset, when at last they came to a stand of oaks and crept to the far side for a better view of the buildings.

  The Bar D was typical of Arizona ranches. A house, stable, and bunkhouse formed a triangle separated by a corral and a neatly tilled lawn boasting two long flowerbeds that spoke of the hands of Mrs. Denton. On seeing them, Clay jerked as if stung, then glanced at the Apaches.

  “You hurt?” Delgadito asked.

  “I just thought of something,” Clay said. “I don’t want her harmed.”

  “Who?”

  “Harve Denton’s wife. She had no hand in her husband’s deed, so she’s to be spared.”

  Delgadito stared in dismay at the white-eye. Despite their talk days ago, Clay Taggart was still as weak as ever. The white-eye had the head for the life of an Apache, but not the heart. Women and children were fair game in war. They were enemies just as much as their men. Had Taggart so soon forgotten the massacre at the hollow, where the scalp hunters slew Apache women and children with sadistic glee? “She is your enemy,” he tried to explain. “If we see her, we should treat her the same as her husband.”

  “No,” Clay said emphatically. “Unless she’s fixing to blow your head off, you’re not to touch a hair on her head.” Switching to the Apache tongue, he relayed the same instructions. Fiero looked at him as if he had gone mad. Ponce puffed his cheeks and exhaled loudly like an irate chipmunk. And Cuchillo Negro cocked his head, studying Clay as he might a rare curiosity.