Delgadito lay close to the small crackling fire. His side had been bandaged with torn strips from his own shirt and he was resting comfortably enough. The bullet had gouged a deep furrow in his side, chipping part of a rib bone, cracking another, and exiting low on his back, making a hole the size of a human fist. His organs had been spared but he had lost a terrible amount of blood.
Cuchillo Negro and Ponce squatted just back from the rim, rifles across their thighs. Neither had spoken or even moved in quite a while.
Clay slapped his leg in irritation and said in the Chiricahua tongue, “There has to be way to beat the white-eyes. We cannot let them keep us penned in here. Our food will only last a few days.”
“We have water,” Ponce said.
“Which helps, but will not keep us alive for long after the food is gone,” Clay stressed. Staring at the rear of the cave, he said, “Are all of you certain there is no other way down from here? Have you looked to see if there is a passage?”
Delgadito had been listening attentively. “We were told there is none so we have never searched.” Rising onto an elbow, he gazed across the spring. “I will check.”
“You rest, pard,” Clay reverted to English. “I’ll take a look-see.”
The cave narrowed at the rear, forming a dark pocket partially blocked by the spring. Keeping his feet close to the wall, Clay moved around the pool. The ceiling became so low that he had to stoop. Despite the obvious that there was no passageway he groped every square inch of the rough wall. At length he sighed and returned to the main chamber. “There is only the footpath,” he announced in Chiricahua, then, for Marista’s benefit, added, “It looks as if those soldier boys have us over a barrel. Unless we can sprout wings and fly, our goose is cooked.”
“Goose?” she repeated.
“We don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell,” Clay amended while stepping close to the entrance. He refused to accept that they were beaten. If there was one lesson his pa had impressed on him again and again and again, it was that the Taggart clan weren’t a bunch of quitters.
Clay had lost track of the number of times he had figured to cash in his chips, only to have his fat pulled out of the fire at the last minute. Grit and clever wits had saved him before; maybe they could do so again.
Rising on tiptoe, Clay scanned the path. Dozens of rifles glistened in the sunlight at the bottom of the spire. Venturing out there invited swift execution. Yet there was no other way down. They were trapped! How long before he was willing to admit the truth to himself? he wondered.
Exasperated, Clay rubbed his chin and idly raised his head to look up at the sky. The ceiling of the cave, which was no more than ten feet above him, limited his view. Like a bolt out of the blue, an idea struck him, and he nearly made the fatal mistake of stepping to the very edge to study the spire above.
Cuchillo Negro had been watching intently. “You have an idea, White Apache?”
“Yes,” Clay said. “Has anyone ever tried to climb around to the other side of Eagle’s Roost?”
“No one who wanted to live,” Cuchillo Negro said with a straight face.
“I am serious,” Clay insisted. “We can wait for the sun to set, then work our way around and down. The white-eyes are all on this side of the spire. We can slip right out from under their noses.”
“The stone is too smooth,” Ponce interjected. “Not even mountain sheep could do it.”
Clay moved to the right-hand corner and craned his neck for a glimpse of the outer surface. Thin cracks laced the stone, but he couldn’t tell if they were wide enough to allow a person to gain purchase or strong enough to hold the weight of a full-grown man.
The crack of a shot from down in the canyon fell on Clay’s ears at the selfsame instant a bullet buzzed past his ear and bit into the cave wall. The whine of the ricochet was like a piercing whistle. A fraction of a second later, Colletto yipped in pain.
Clay crouched, realizing that he had nearly had his fool head blown off. He scooted over to the Pimas, where Marista was examining a crease on the boy’s shoulder. The spent slug had torn the skin but done no real damage.
Cuchillo Negro came over, his countenance sober. “I agree with you, Lickoyee-shis-inday, that we must act before the white-eyes think to use the cave to their advantage.”
Clay was about to ask what the warrior meant when the answer hit him. All the soldiers had to do was fire sustained volleys into the cave until eventually the ricochets wiped out every last one of them.
“As for climbing down the other side,” Cuchillo Negro went on, “for the boy it would be impossible. I think it would sap the strength of the woman, and she would fall long before she reached the bottom. Delgadito, in his condition, would not get halfway.”
The warrior had given an accurate assessment of factors that Clay in his enthusiasm had failed to take into account. But he wasn’t ready to abandon the plan. “One of us has to try. Since the idea was mine, I will be the one. Shee-dah.”
Marista faced him, her eyes pools of worry.
Deliberately not meeting her gaze, Clay said, “If I make it down, I’ll find a way to lure most of the boys in blue off. When the times comes, you will know it. Be ready.”
“You risk all,” Cuchillo Negro said.
“I led us here.”
Aware of the woman’s eyes boring into him, Clay stepped to the pool and splashed water on his face and neck. He saw no reason to mention that he had long been skittish of heights, and as a sprout he had never dared climb high into trees for fear of falling. It had taken every ounce of self-control he had to climb the path to the cave. For the life of him he didn’t see how he was going to climb down the spire, but he had to do it. There was no shirking his responsibility.
Soon breakfast was ready. The food took Clay’s mind off the frightful feat he had set for himself. As he downed his third cup of piping hot black coffee, he was taken aback to hear his name being shouted outside.
Setting down the battered tin cup, Clay hurried over. So did the others. Leery of a ruse to draw him into the open, he halted a few feet from where the rock path merged into the cave.
“Clay Taggart!” the hail was repeated. “This is Captain Gerald Forester, Fifth Cavalry Flying Detachment speaking. If you’re up there, give a holier.”
Cupping a hand to his mouth, Clay replied, “I’m here! What do you want?”
“Step out where I can see you.”
Clay laughed long and loud. “What do you take me for, Captain? A damned greenhorn?”
“I give you my personal word of honor that none of my troopers will fire,” the officer bellowed. Then, lowering his voice just a little, “Did you hear that, men? Anyone who fires faces a court martial when we get back to the post.”
Intrigued, Clay inched forward until he could see a lone figure standing on the footpath. The officer spotted him and held out his hands to show they were empty.
“What do you want, Captain?”
“To save us both a lot of aggravation. You can’t come down, we can’t come up. But we can wait you out. So why not make it easy on yourself and surrender? I promise to see you safely to Fort Bowie to stand trial. Beyond that, it’s out of my hands.”
“Why all this concern for my welfare?” Clay asked.
“To be honest, mister, I’d rather string you up from the handiest tree. Or let my men use you for a pincushion. You’re scum, a traitor to your own kind, and you deserve to be exterminated.”
Forester pushed his hat back. “But I can’t let my personal feelings dictate my actions. I’m a soldier. And I don’t care to have my men and animals roast under this broiling sun any longer than they have to. So what do you say? Give it up. You’re butchering days are over, one way or the other. You might as well make it easy on yourself and the bucks with you.”
Clay had to smile at the officer’s audacity. “I’m not about to surrender, not until I’ve settled accounts with Miles Gillett.”
“The rancher? What the hell d
oes he have to do with any of this?”
“Everything. He framed me. Made me an outlaw.”
“It won’t wash, Taggart. He sure as hell didn’t make you join a band of renegade Apache.”
Clay knew that to try and explain would be wasted effort. “Have it your way, Captain. I’m not giving up.” A thought pricked him. “But I would like to let the woman and boy come down, if you’ll pledge to release them. They had no part in any of the killings.”
The officer stiffened. “There’s a woman and child up there? Damn. I didn’t know. Who are they?”
“A Pima and her son. What do you say?”
“Unlike some I could mention, I don’t make war on females or kids. Send them down.”
Nodding, Clay turned. Forester struck him as being honorable enough, as a man who could be trusted, within limits. Marista and Colletto would be safe. But he saw right away by the set of her jaw that she wasn’t about to go. “It’s for your own good,” he urged.
“No.”
“Think of your son. He has his whole life ahead of him. Why have him die when there is no need?”
“Son not want go. I not leave you. He not leave me.” A hint of fear crept into her tone. “You want me go? Like Culozul?”
Although he knew he should tell her that he did, Clay couldn’t bring himself to mouth the words. She had been betrayed once; he’d be damned if he was going to make her suffer the same agony again. “I do not,” he said softly.
Heartfelt gratitude radiated from her features. Marista placed a hand on his wrist and said tenderly, “Thank you. I tell you before. You be good man.”
Troubled and pleased at the same time, Clay swiveled and regarded the waiting officer a few moments. “I wish they would come but they won’t. They aim to see this through to the end.”
Forester’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry to hear that, Taggart. I truly am. Ask them one more time. Beg them if you have to.”
“It wouldn’t do any good.”
The officer nodded. “So be it. But you have to understand my position. We have enough water to last us three days at the most, not taking into account the time it will take us to reach the nearest stream once we leave. I don’t have any choice.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Just this,” Captain Forester said. Whirling, he shouted for all the troopers to hear, “Open fire!”
Chapter Twelve
For all of two seconds the White Apache stood riveted in shock at the officer’s abrupt turnaround. Then, as dozens of carbines cracked in booming cadence and slugs filled the cave mouth or chipped at the ceiling and floor, he threw himself to the rear. A shot stung his arm, another his calf, but neither did more than draw trickles of blood.
The Chiricahuas and the Pimas also fell back, bending low to keep from being hit by the scores of rounds that ricocheted throughout the cave. Lead flew back and forth, up and down, at all angles.
Ponce suddenly held out a bleeding hand and shook it.
Cuchillo Negro hit the floor and rolled toward the spring. Delgadito was moving as fast as he could, a hand wedged against the bandage to staunch the renewed flow of blood.
“All the way to the rear!” Clay directed, first in English, then in the Chiricahua tongue. The band obeyed, the warriors
allowing the woman and her boy to precede them.
Miniature geysers burst from the pool as bullet after bullet pockmarked its surface. Some of the water splashed onto White Apache’s feet, nearly causing him to slip on the slick floor.
Then they reached the sanctuary of the pocket and huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, White Apache and the warriors on the outside, protecting the Pimas with their own bodies.
The firing went on and on. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of rounds were expended. Bits of stone rained from the ceiling and the walls. Small clouds of dust formed, hugging the floor like fog.
White Apache grew enraged at the officer’s callous disregard for the welfare of Marista and Colletto. He couldn’t help questioning whether Forester would have given the order to fire if the pair had been white and not Pimas. Maybe the captain was one of those who believed all Indians should be exterminated like lice, regardless of whether they were women, men, or children.
White Apache made a vow. If he lived, he would make it a point to track down Captain Gerald Forester and repay the man for the cold-blooded deed done this day.
After what seemed like half an hour, the firing ceased. Clay motioned for the others to stay put and dashed to the rim. The soldiers were taking a breather, perhaps to let their guns cool, since overheated carbines had a tendency to jam. Or maybe they were conserving ammunition. He saw Forester surveying the cave through field glasses and couldn’t resist popping up just to let the man know they were still alive.
“Fire at will! Now! Quickly!”
The troopers had to scramble to load and shoot, giving White Apache more time than he needed to reach the pocket. The shooting went on twice as long. Cuchillo Negro was the only one hit, suffering a flesh wound.
At last quiet reined. White Apache moved to the front of the spring and drank. Crawling to the entrance, he spied on the Flying Detachment without revealing himself.
Down below, Captain Forester was in a quandary. He was confident that the steady firing had killed or maimed most of the renegades since it was unthinkable that any living creature could have survived, but he couldn’t bring himself to send any men up the footpath, not yet, if there was a chance that even one of the renegades lived. A single warrior could pick off anyone who tried to reach the cave.
Forester had to content himself with waiting. He moved among the troopers, complimenting them on a job well done. It was important to keep their morale high, to remind them that they were dealing with the worst cutthroats in Arizona Territory. Much to his relief, no one asked him about the woman and child. It tore him up inside knowing that he had weighed their lives in the balance and decided that eliminating the renegades took priority.
Unknown to the officer, a quarter of a mile away Fiero had heard the shooting and stopped in his tracks. He had outdistanced the scouts, who were poking about in a large cluster of boulders where he had left a few clear footprints pointing in the wrong direction to tantalize them. Sooner or later they would figure out the ruse. In the meantime, he would check on the others. On all fours he slipped into dense brush, then rose and sped toward the rear of the stone spire.
Up in the cave, White Apache rested his chin on his forearms and waited for Forester’s next move. Cuchillo Negro joined him without speaking. For over two hours they lay in the sun, and just when White Apache thought that the worst was over, the captain ordered his men to resume firing.
Twice more that day the same tactic was repeated. After each onslaught White Apache crept to the entrance to watch. Finally his patience was rewarded.
It was half an hour before sunset when Captain Forester decided the time had come. There had been no sign of life in the cave. None of the volleys had been answered. Acting on the assumption the renegades were fiddled with bullets, he turned to Sergeant McKinn and ordered, “Send four men up. Have the rest ready to give coveting fire, just in case.”
White Apache quivered when the quartet began to climb the path. He looked at Cuchillo Negro and said, “Wait until they are too high to jump.”
It was like shooting clay pigeons. The four soldiers had no chance at all. Two of them dropped, shot through the head, and the other two whirled to flee. They were each drilled between the shoulder blades. Too late, the Detachment opened fire.
Captain Forester was furious, but there was nothing he could do. He had run out of ideas and daylight, and if he wasn’t careful he would run out of ammo before too long.
For White Apache, sundown was the moment he had waited for. He wiped the sweat from his limbs with a piece of cloth, swallowed a cup of water, and went to the corner of the cave without speaking. No words were needed. They all knew what was at stake, what he had t
o do, or else.
White Apache had made a sling for his Winchester out of strips of rawhide. He slung the rifle now, eased to the edge, and reached out, seeking a handhold. There was one, a horizontal fissure with sharp edges. Taking a firm grip, he gingerly extended his foot and located a spiny knob.
Don’t look down! White Apache’s mind shrieked as he took a deep breath and stepped out into space, clinging to the side of the spire like an oversized lizard. He pressed his body flush and felt goosebumps cover his skin. He had to close his eyes a few moments before he could muster the courage to go on.
Locking his left hand on the fissure, White Apache extended his right as far as it would go and felt for another handhold. He found none, and feared the band was doomed. As he brought the hand toward him, he brushed a crack barely wide enough for his fingertips. It was all he had to work with so he inserted his fingers and slid farther from the opening.
And so it went. Slow inch by slow inch, every muscle as rigid as piano wire, every nerve frayed to the breaking point, never knowing if the next breath might be his last, White Apache worked his way around the spire.
The darkness helped some; it hid the bottom. White Apache could glance down without having to worry about becoming dizzy. Once on the far side there was the temptation to go faster, which he resisted. Nor would he move a hand or foot unless the other hand and foot had firm support. Several times handholds and thin ledges crumpled to dust when he applied pressure, but he was braced and didn’t lose his balance.
To the east a quarter moon arced into the heavens. It had climbed to the apex of its circuit when, much to White Apache’s amazement, he lowered his left leg for what must have been the two hundredth time and his sole made contact with what felt like terra firma.
Elated, White Apache shifted the moccasin to the right and the left to verify he had found footing on the ground and not merely a wide ledge. Daring to lift his cheek from the spire, he saw a few bushes nearby.
Blood Treachery (A White Apache Western Book 6) Page 13