White Apache 10

by David Robbins

  Crane had been to California once, during the rush of ’49. He’d been impressed by the climate and the friendly people. Even though his father had dragged him back to Arizona after failing to strike it rich, his childhood memories stuck with him.

  One day he was going there again. Provided he lived long enough, of course.

  A stiff wind from the northwest stirred dust in the street as Crane rode up to the hitching post in front of the marshal’s office and dismounted. Looping the reins, he strode inside, his spur jangling.

  Slumped behind the desk was Deputy Weaver, a bean pole of a man who was almost as slow with his wits as he was with a gun. Crane had hired Weaver because he did as he was told without asking questions.

  Slamming the door, Crane grinned. Weaver shot to his feet and made a clumsy stab for the Remington at his side. “Sleeping on the job again, I see? Looks like I’ll have to dock you another hour this week.”

  Shem Weaver blinked. “Marshal! I thought you said that you wouldn’t be back until mornin’.”

  “I wrapped up the business I was on sooner than I expected,” Crane said, stepping around the desk and shooing the bean pole away so he could sit. “Anything happen while I was gone?”

  “Not much,” Weaver said. “I let old Anders out of the cell once he sobered up, just like you told me to do. The owner of the Acme came by, but when he heard you were gone, he said that you should stop by and see him in person. Claimed you’d understand.”

  Crane nodded. Rafe Skinner, the proprietor of the Acme Saloon, was just one of many who paid him under the table to look the other way when local gambling laws were broken, “I’ll hunt him up later tonight. If that’s all, you can go grab a bite to eat while I hold down the fort.”

  “Much obliged, Marshal.” Deputy Weaver said and patted his stomach. “I am feelin’ a mite hollow.”

  He made for the door, but after taking only a few steps, he stopped dead in his tracks and spun. “Tarnation! I almost plumb forgot!” Coming around the desk, he opened a side drawer and took out an envelope. “This came for you on the afternoon stage.”

  Crane’s pulse quickened when he recognized the handwriting. Tearing the envelope open, he took out a letter. “It’s from my daughter.”

  “You have a sprout?” Weaver said. “Hellfire, I never even knew you were hitched.”

  “I was for a short while a long time ago,” Crane said and let the subject go at that. “As for Tessa, she’s no sprout. She’ll be nineteen in a few months.” Eagerly Crane began reading. Finishing the first paragraph, he glanced at the date at the top of the page, then swore lustily.

  “What’s the matter?” Weaver asked. “Bad news?”

  “My daughter is coming for a visit.”

  “Really? When is she due in?”

  Tom Crane frowned. The mail service to Tucson was deplorable. It was a standing joke among the good citizens of the whole territory that letters sent from points back east might as well go by the way of the moon because they would get there sooner. The date on Tessa’s letter showed Crane she had written it nearly six weeks earlier, yet it had only just arrived. “In two days.”

  The skinny deputy beamed like an idiot. “I bet you can’t wait! When was the last time you saw her?”

  Tom Crane had half a mind to grab Weaver and hurl him through the front window. But he swallowed his anger and answered honestly. “I never have.”

  “Never?” Weaver made for the door, shaking his head. “Well, then, I reckon her visit will be downright interestin’.”

  “To say the least,” Crane said half to himself. “To say the very least.”

  Two

  The fragrant aroma of brewing coffee brought Clay Taggart out of a deep sleep. He didn’t open his eyes right away. Instead, he lay under his blanket, savoring the warmth.

  Moments of peace and tranquility were all too rare in Clay’s life of late. Ever since he had been forced into hiding after being falsely accused of having his way with Lily Gillett, he had suffered one nightmare after another. He had been lynched by vigilantes and taken prisoner by Apache renegades. He had barely escaped being slain when the Apache camp was raided by vicious scalp hunters from south of the border. He had been hunted by the army, by bounty hunters, and by rogue Apaches. It was a miracle he was still alive – a miracle Clay had no intention of taking for granted.

  So on that particular morning, his nostrils tingled by the delicious scent of the perking coffee, Clay listened to the crackling of the low fire and the soft humming of the woman who shared his wickiup.

  Clay had little fear that he and the renegade Apaches he had befriended would be attacked. At the moment, they were camped high up in the Dragoons, in a small hidden valley known only to the Apaches, a lush paradise watered by a sparkling spring.

  Cracking his eyelids, Clay secretly admired the beautiful woman who was on her knees over by the fire, weaving a large basket in which she would store food. Her raven tresses seemed to shimmer in the firelight. Her smooth features were almost angelic. He noticed how her full breasts filled out the top of her beaded buckskin dress, and it kindled anew the exquisite sensations he had felt the night before during their passionate lovemaking.

  Marista was a Pima. Her people were peaceful farmers who lived in seven villages along the Gila River. They grew squash, beans, corn, and tobacco. Never warlike, they only took up arms when raided. Unfortunately for them, their villages were in close proximity to the Chiricahua homeland; so they were raided often.

  Marista had been raised as a member of the White Ant Clan. Like Clay, she had been unjustly accused of a crime she had not committed. Like him, she was an outcast.

  It seemed that her former husband, a famous Pima by the name of Culozul, had decided he wanted a new, younger wife. But since Pimas were only allowed one woman by custom, and since divorce was unknown among them, wily Culozul had resorted to lying in order to have his way. He had accused Marista of the one crime Pimas never tolerated: adultery. Women accused of adultery were either stoned to death or shunned.

  So Marista and her young son Colletto had become outcasts. They had wandered the desert and mountains, barely scraping by, living in dread that each new day might be their last. Then they had stumbled on Clay when he was in dire need, and they saved his life. Out of gratitude, Clay had taken them under his wing. Much to Marista’s surprise, Clay’s gratitude had blossomed into love.

  Clay’s love surprised even him because, not all that long ago, he had looked down his nose on all Indians and their ways, branding them as scum that should be exterminated. Nor had he been alone in his belief. Most whites in Arizona felt the same way. Newspapers railed against the red nuisance. Preachers gave sermons decrying the heathen menace. Politicians, always quick to exploit the popular tide, went on and on about the need to solve the Indian problem, but they failed to offer workable ideas.

  To the white settlers, Indians were the scum of the earth. They deserved to be wiped out or crammed onto remote preserves where the frontiersmen would not come into contact with them.

  Recently, the fiercest of all the Apache bands, the widely feared Chiricahuas, had been herded onto a reservation named in their honor. Their revered leader Cochise had been largely responsible for the founding of the reservation. Always wise, Cochise had foreseen that, unless his people did as the whites wanted, they would be ruthlessly wiped out.

  The Chiricahuas were luckier than most tribes in that the land assigned as their reservation included the Chiricahua and Dragoon Mountains, the region in which they had lived for more generations than any of them could remember. They were allowed to hunt and roam there as they pleased, but they were not permitted to leave the reservation for any reason. Nor could they raid into Mexico, as their fathers and their fathers’ fathers had.

  The majority of Chiricahuas agreed to the white terms, but not all. Bands of renegades, refusing to be told how they could live, waged relentless war against whites and Mexicans alike. Foremost among them was the tiny
group led by a warrior once described as the Scourge of the Southwest. His name was Delgadito, and if not for him, Clay’s neck would have been stretched by a hemp noose months earlier. But Clay still lived, and that morning, he was lucky enough to enjoy some rest as he watched the woman he loved.

  Suddenly a shadow filled the entrance of the wickiup, and Colletto came in. The boy beamed proudly. From his right hand dangled a rabbit he had slain with a sling. He spoke to his mother in the Pima tongue and she answered, smiling sweetly.

  Clay did not quite catch what they said. He was trying to learn their language, just as he had mastered the Chiricahua tongue. But he had a long way to go before he would be able to hold an intelligent conversation. Reverting to English, he said, “Let the boy know he did a good job, Marista. Rabbit stew will make a fine supper.”

  Marista turned, her smile widening. “I not know you awake,” she said in a clipped, heavily accented voice.

  She knew enough English to get by, thanks to Dr. David Wooster of San Francisco. The good doctor had lived among her people for quite some time, tending the sick and helping out in other ways, such as holding classes to teach the white man’s tongue.

  Clay sat up and stretched. “It’s about time I got my lazy carcass out of the sack.” He was pleased when Marista ran her dark eyes over his bronzed chest and rippling muscles.

  “I make breakfast while you be bear,” Marista said, indicating a flat rock on which rested six circular cakes.

  “Be bear?” Clay repeated, unsure of her meaning.

  Marista closed her eyes, placed her cheek in her hand, then did a remarkable imitation of him snoring. Clay laughed uproariously, and Marista sidled over to him to place her warm hands on his shoulders. “My heart is your heart, Lickoyee-shis-inday,” she said, using his Chiricahua name. “As long as sun and moon last, I be yours. Savvy?”

  Clay brazenly scooped her into his arms and planted a lingering kiss on her full lips. “I understand,” he said, “and the same holds true for me.” Glancing up, he noticed her son gaping at him. “What’s gotten into the boy? Why is he trying to catch flies with his mouth?”

  Marista chuckled. “Him not used to way you laugh, to how kind you be. Culozul never laugh. Culozul hit him a lot, not say him do good as you do. You much different, White Apache. You happy man.”

  The simple statement gave Clay pause. The hell of it was she was absolutely right. He was happier than he had ever been in his entire life, even though his happiness made no sense. Taggart was, after all, the most wanted man in Arizona, with a huge bounty on his head. He was sought by the entire Fifth Cavalry and every law officer in the territory, not to mention every soldier in Mexico. He’d lost everything he ever owned: his ranch, his livestock, his personal belongings. He was despised by every white, distrusted by every reservation Apache, and loathed by the Nakai-hay below the border. By all rights, he should have been miserable.

  Yet there Taggart sat, laughing and joking. Indeed, he was happier than he’d ever been in the old days. His lot in life was so ridiculous, he threw back his head and cackled.

  After his mirth subsided, Clay dressed swiftly, donning leggings, a shirt, and a headband. A breechcloth went over his leggings, hanging down low in front and back. Last, he pulled on knee-high moccasins, the style favored by Apaches. When he was done, he was the spitting image of a full-blooded Chiricahua warrior, right down to his sun-browned skin and his long black hair. The only giveaway that he was white were his deep blue eyes.

  Marista held out a tin cup brimming with scalding hot coffee. Clay accepted it and sipped, relishing the warmth that spread down his throat into his stomach. Then he helped himself to a corn cake.

  Suddenly, another shadow blocked the entrance. That one was made by a pair of legs. Whoever was outside had the courtesy not to look in unless invited. “Lickoyee-shis-inday, you are needed.”

  White Apache stuffed the last of the com cake into his mouth and rose. He grabbed his Winchester and exited the wickiup to find Cuchillo Negro waiting for him.

  Of the four renegades in the band, the man known to the Mexicans as Black Knife had always been the friendliest to Clay. Cuchillo Negro was a rarity among Apaches, and for that matter, a rarity anywhere because he did not judge others by the color of their skin. “Greetings, my brother. Delgadito holds a council.”

  White Apache did not need to be told where the meeting would be held. All their councils took place at the spring. Bending his steps in that direction, he asked, “Do you know why?”

  “He would not say.” Cuchillo Negro gazed toward his own wickiup and saw Florencia, the Mexican woman he had kidnapped to be his wife. She liked to sit out in the sun early in the morning; at the moment, she was busy mending a tom shirt of his.

  “Things go well with you and your new woman,” White Apache said. He was pleased to see them getting along so well since it had been his idea for the band to attack a conducta and make off with women for each of the Chiricahuas.

  Necessity had demanded they take action. The four warriors had lost all their loved ones when scalp hunters had nearly wiped out the band. Since none of the Chiricahua women on the reservation would have anything to do with them for fear of suffering a similar fate, the renegades had done as Apaches had been doing since the dawn of time: They had ventured south to the state of Chihuahua and helped themselves to the first women they saw.

  Now each of them had a wife, except the youngest warrior, Ponce, whose woman had managed to escape. Just days earlier, though, Clay had learned that Ponce was slipping off to pay a certain young Chiricahua girl on the reservation regular visits; so perhaps all of them would have women soon.

  Clay hoped so. The band needed females in order to thrive. If they wanted to attract more warriors to their cause, they had to convince others that it would be safe for them to bring their families along.

  Rounding Cuchillo Negro’s wickiup, the two men saw a sparkling pool of water. Beside it hunkered three warriors. White Apache cradled his Winchester in his left arm and raised his rig at hand, palm outward, in greeting.

  “Lickoyee-shis-inday,” young Ponce said. A robust, handsome warrior, he took great pride in his appearance. His clothing was always clean, his hair always neatly parted and combed. He was also partial to wearing wide beaded bracelets. Across his legs rested a carbine.

  A few feet from Ponce sat a powerfully built hulk who disdained wearing shirts. Fiero was his name, and he had a temperament to match. His features had the hawkish contours of a natural-born predator. His eyes, true to his name, always blazed with inner light. On his brow was a long scar in the shape of a lightning bolt. He had a polished rifle at his side, a pistol and a Bowie strapped around his waist. As was his habit, he merely grunted in greeting.

  The last warrior was older than Ponce by two decades and less muscular than Fiero. He had, however, a more commanding presence than either of the other warriors. That forceful appearance had nothing to do with his red shirt or the twin Colts at his side. His posture, his bearing, and his every gesture were ample testimony to why over a score of seasoned warriors had left the reservation to throw in with him on his ill-fated attempt to seek sanctuary deep in Mexico.

  Once, Delgadito had been a highly respected Chiricahua leader. Once, many had believed that he would become head of the entire tribe. Then fate had reared its serpentine head. He had suffered one setback after another. The Mexicans had driven him north of the border. He had been forced to hide out in rugged, arid country where even Apaches found it hard to survive. His band ran so low on food, they had to eat nearly all their horses.

  Then Delgadito thought he had a stroke of luck. He witnessed the lynching of Clay Taggart. As the whites who had hanged Taggart rode off, he had ordered Taggart cut down, but not because he cared one way or the other whether Taggart lived. He had rescued Taggart because he planned to have Taggart go to the army and arrange for the bloodless surrender of his band.

  An attack by scalp hunters had spoiled everything. D
elgadito had seen the slaughter of those he cared for most. His wife, his relatives, and his closest friends had fallen before the guns and knives of the merciless fiends who dabbled in the commerce of human lives for profit. Only four warriors, counting Delgadito, had lived through the attack. And one other: Lickoyee-shis-inday.

  Through a quirk of fate, White Apache was well respected by the other surviving warriors. White Apache was the one who had saved them from federates on a foray into Mexico. White Apache was the one who had led them on several successful raids near Tucson. White Apache was the one who had gotten them women. White Apache’s good fortune was enough to make Delgadito gnash his teeth in outrage.

  But the seasoned warrior knew better than to let his true feelings show. As he always did when around White Apache, he acted as if Taggart were his best friend. ‘Amigo,” he said. “Nejennee, pinday lickoyee, nuestche shee.”

  Easing cross-legged to the ground, Clay placed the Winchester at his side. “Why have you called us together, my friend? Do you want to go on another raid?”

  “To-dah. No. Soon enough, but not this day,” Delgadito said. He pointed to the southeast. “I thought it best to let you know that before the sun is straight overhead I will leave for Palacio’s village.”

  Clay did not know what to make of the news. Palacio was the current leader of the Chiricahuas, and he hated Delgadito. Even worse, Palacio’s village was close to Fort Bowie. Delgadito was taking an enormous risk venturing there.

  “Are you eager to pass on to the other side?” Clay asked. “If Palacio should learn you are here, he will send for the white-eyes to come and seize you.”

  “It must be done,” Delgadito said. “Late yesterday I was hunting deer on the high ridge east of here, and I saw a lone warrior running in this direction. I slipped down to see who it was. Corn Flower, my nephew, sent a messenger with word that he and several other warriors are thinking of joining us. He asked me to go speak to them.”