As if the drain in a wash basin had been pulled, all the strength ebbed from White Apache and he sank to the ground, exhausted, his body slick with perspiration. Lowering his forehead to the dirt, he made no attempt to go on. There was no rush. He could spare a few minutes to recover from the nightmare.
Presently White Apache girded himself and stood. The air felt deliciously cool and he took several invigorating breaths. Then, unslinging the Winchester, he turned to the south and moved around the bottom of the spire.
White Apache was a credit to the warriors who had taught him. He made as little noise as would Delgadito or Fiero or any true Chiricahua. Stopping often to look and listen to insure he wouldn’t blunder onto concealed troopers, he covered scores of yards and was approaching the southwest side of Eagle’s Roost when a low cough glued him in place.
Patience was an Apache virtue honed to a degree few whites could match. White Apache had learned its value and worked hard to imitate the example of his red brothers. He practiced it now, remaining in a crouch for minutes on end, heedless of a cramp in his thigh that grew worse as time went by. Only when the cough was repeated and he pinpointed the position of the soldier did he flatten and move off in another direction.
It soon became apparent he had stumbled on the last man in a long line of troopers partially ringing the spire. White Apache swung wide, moving on his toes and fingers, resembling nothing so much as a gigantic gila monster as he scuttled from cover to cover.
After a while, convinced he had gone far enough, White Apache rose to his knees and debated the best course of action to take. He had promised Marista and the rest that he would draw the troopers away from the footpath. But how should he go about it?
Then a nicker wafted on the breeze, and White Apache smiled. The cavalrymen were many miles from the nearest post. The last thing they would want would be for their mounts to run off. It would mean a long forced march with no food and little water. They would keep that from happening at all costs.
White Apache stalked toward the horses. Soon he heard the sounds typical of a large group of horses, and low voices. Lowering his belly to the ground, he wriggled toward a cluster of brush. The next moment one of the bushes uncoiled, flattened, and came toward him.
White Apache had the Winchester in front of him. All he had to do was point and fire. He started to, when a whisper no louder than the murmuring breeze revealed it wasn’t an enemy.
“Lickoyee-shis-inday! I thought you were still in the cave.”
“Fiero!” White Apache whispered, and clasped the warrior’s wrist. “We feared you were dead.”
Fiero was moved by the show of affection but he did not betray his feelings. It was unseemly for a warrior to display emotion so openly. White Apache did so often, which Fiero blamed on the man’s flawed upbringing. The whites did not know how to do anything right. “Are the others with you?”
In a few words, White Apache explained.
Incredulous, Fiero craned his head and stared up at the stone spire, which seemed to touch the stars themselves. It astounded him that anyone would attempt to climb down from so lofty a height. He knew that he would never have attempted it, and his estimation of Lickoyee-shis-inday rose a notch.
“I have a plan,” White Apache added. He shared his thoughts on the horses.
“We think alike,” Fiero said. “That is why I am here.”
“We will work together.”
Side by side, the pair advanced. Once in the brush, they crept another twenty-five yards, to the lip of a shallow hollow, where they saw the string tethered under the watchful eyes of three soldiers, two of whom were talking beside some mesquite while the third made a circuit of the restless animals.
Using hand signs, White Apache conveyed his intent. Fiero slipped off without a word.
After waiting a few moments, White Apache angled toward the pair of unsuspecting troopers. He smelled the acrid odor of smoke. An orange dot flared in the night, revealing why; one of the soldiers was enjoying a cigarette.
Enough mesquite lined the hollow to permit White Apache to creep within ten feet of his quarry. Lying the Winchester at his side, he drew his Bowie knife.
The taller trooper was speaking quietly. “told me the captain wasn’t very upset about Parmalee. Which ain’t surprising. The two of them never did get along very well.”
“Forester was sure as hell upset at the scouts, though,” said the other man. “He couldn’t see how they lost the trail.”
“If you ask me, the savages are all in cahoots, the renegades and the tame bucks alike,” declared the tall one. “The only way to stop this bloodshed is to wipe every last Injun off the face of the earth.”
White Apache noted that the short man had placed the stock of his carbine on the ground, that the tall man had his in the crook of an arm. Both wore revolvers but the flaps to their holster were closed. No matter what, he had to keep them from squeezing off a shot.
Like a mountain lion waiting for the moment when its prey would be most vulnerable, White Apache bided his time.
“I just hope we finish off the stinking renegades soon, Garth,” the short man said.
“Me too, Brett. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m actually looking forward to being at Fort Bowie.”
Brett pivoted and surveyed the hollow. “Say, where the hell did Winslow get to? He was over there a second ago.”
Garth shifted to look, which put the backs of both men to White Apache. Instantly he rose and sprang, taking three lightning bounds. He speared the Bowie into Garth’s ribs, felt the edge scrape bone, and heard the gasp Garth uttered as the point pierced his heart.
Wrenching the blade out, White Apache spun to dispatch the short one, but Brett was too quick for him and sidestepped the thrust. The trooper tried to bring his carbine to bear but his foot caught on a plant, and he fell. White Apache pounced as Brett frantically scrambled upright.
The soldier opened his mouth to shout for help. Automatically White Apache slammed a knee into Brett’s groin so that the only sound that came out was a strangled whine. Flicking his arm, White Apache cut the man’s shoulder, and Brett, desperately darting aside, lost his grip on the carbine.
White Apache could not give the man a moment’s respite. He attacked, swinging waist height to keep Brett from unlimbering the Colt. The soldier dodged, twisted, feinted right and went left. White Apache missed him by a hair. Again Brett threw back his head to shout. This time White Apache snapped his right arm to his shoulder and let the Bowie fly.
The blade flashed like a meteor, impaling itself to the hilt in the man’s jugular. Brett, shocked, halted and grabbed the hilt. Gurgling and spitting, he tore the knife free. A torrent of blood spewed in its wake.
White Apache raised a fist to batter the man senseless, but no further blows were needed. The trooper sagged, blubbering softly, his eyelids fluttering. White Apache snatched the Bowie and stood aside while the man sank onto his side and died within seconds in a spreading crimson pool.
White Apache wiped the Bowie clean on Garth’s shirt, retrieved the Winchester, and turned to the horses. From out of the darkness whisked Fiero, the new loop-style cartridge belt adorning his muscular midsection ample evidence that the other guard had been disposed of.
“Now we drive the horses off!”
“No.”
“No?”
“Now we stampede them straight past Eagle’s Roost,” White Apache said, and Fiero grinned, understanding. Moving slowly forward so as not to spook the animals, they each picked a horse and cut it loose from the string.
White Apache freed the rest of the animals while Fiero sat ready to chase any inclined to run off. None did, although many were agitated by the scent of blood. White Apache rode to the west side of the hollow, directly across from Fiero and near the rear of the herd.
Suddenly White Apache spied a pair of figures approaching on the run from the direction of the spire. Waving his rifle to signal Fiero, he rose up off his bay, yipped
shrilly, and banged three swift shots into the air. Fiero followed his lead. The result was exactly what they wanted.
The herd broke into motion. With one accord the dozens of horses fled on out of the hollow, pounding up and over the side, making for Eagle’s Roost in a milling mass of drumming hoofs and flying manes and tails. Panicked whinnies rent the air.
White Apache jabbed his heels into the bay and stayed abreast of the herd. He saw the approaching figures dash eastward to get out of the way of the horses, heard rough shouts that were answered from the vicinity of the spire. Fiero’s rifle boomed and one of the figures dropped. The other dived behind a bush and brought a six-shooter into play.
Whooping and hollering, White Apache spurred the herd to greater speed. As he had hoped, the animals were spreading out. They were also raising tremendous amounts of dust that choked the air. In no time he could hardly see more than fifteen feet with any clarity.
Gunfire blasted, courtesy of troopers firing wildly, the shots for the most part going high.
Through a break in the dust, White Apache spotted nine or ten soldiers running to meet the herd. The men were yelling and waving and jumping up and down, trying to stop the animals. He shouted louder and emptied the Winchester to keep the horses stampeding, and they did.
The dust grew thicker. A trooper materialized directly ahead, turning every which way as if uncertain which route offered safety. He spied White Apache and clawed at the pistol on his hip.
Without slowing, White Apache galloped past, swinging the rifle like a club. The impact lifted the man off his feet and left him sprawled senseless.
A gruff voice rose above the riot of noise.
“After them! Don’t let the horses get away!”
Off to the right several soldiers were sprinting in pursuit of the herd. White Apache reined up so they wouldn’t spot him and sought to get his bearings. By his reckoning he was west of the spire by no more than thirty or forty yards. Drawing his Colt, White Apache trotted toward it.
The bay unaccountably shied. White Apache looked down to find the battered body of a scout lying face down. The Indian had been trampled to death. He went a little farther and saw another trooper limping to the north.
A flurry of shots reminded White Apache that not all the troopers had gone after the herd. Moments later he came on three dead cavalrymen close to the base of the footpath. Closer still was Fiero, probing the dust cloud for more enemies.
White Apache drew rein at the very end of the path, then wheeled the bay. He was not going to budge until the rest of the band showed up, even if the entire Detachment returned.
Fiero, as usual, was aglow with the lust of battle. “Ho! It is a fine night to die!” he cried.
But no cavalrymen appeared. Gradually the dust began to settle. To the north there were curses and shouts that indicated the troopers were rounding up the horses.
White Apache anxiously watched the footpath, telling himself that it shouldn’t be long, that the Pimas and the Chiricahuas would show up at any second. But another minute went by, then two, and they failed to appear. He gripped the bay’s mane, about to slide off and go see what was taking them.
“Here they come!” Fiero declared.
Delgadito was in the lead, moving slowly because of his wound. Marista and the boy were next. Cuchillo Negro carried her water skin, while Ponce brought a leather pouch bulging with ammunition.
White Apache vaulted from the bay and gave it a resounding smack on the rump, sending it fleeing on the heels of the herd. Taking Marista’s hand, he hastened to the southeast.
From out of the tendrils of dust a grimy trooper appeared and made the mistake of using his mouth instead of his carbine. “Hey! Over here! The damn Apaches are getting away!” Cuchillo Negro shot the man dead.
The band raced nimbly across the canyon, Delgadito keeping up despite the shape he was in. From the shelter of high boulders they looked back and saw five or six forms moving about near the footpath.
“It will take them a while to organize,” White Apache remarked. He jogged onward, knowing that several miles beyond lay country so rough that horses would be a hindrance rather than a help.
A cleft in the canyon wall brought them to a tableland, which they traversed at a pace that soon had Colletto tottering with fatigue. White Apache scooped the boy into his arms and ran on.
Within three hours they entered a maze of ravines and dry washes. White Apache halted under a rock overhang and set Colletto down. “We are safe now,” he announced. “By the time the whites pick up our trail, we will be far away.”
Delgadito sat down, examined his side, and grimaced. “We should never have gone to Eagle’s Roost. We made the Gans mad.”
“I will never doubt your beliefs again,” White Apache said, and meant it.
Ponce voiced the question most of them had in mind. “What now, lickoyee-shis-inday? What do we do next?”
The White Apache glanced at Marista and her son, then at the warriors, and said in English to himself, “I wish to hell I knew.” Changing to the Chiricahua tongue, he declared, “We will work that out later. But I can make all of you one promise.”
“Which is?” Cuchillo Negro asked.
“As Fiero is so fond of saying, every day will be a good day to die.”
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