White Apache 10

by David Robbins

  Minutes dragged by. A half hour. Then an hour. Calhoun narrowed the gap between himself and the Maricopa, who was holding his horse to a trot. Every so often, Calhoun would look back. The Apache was always there. Presently, the Apache fell a little farther behind. Calhoun hoped the Apache s lagging behind was a good sign. The savage’s horse had to be tiring.

  In reality, however, the black stallion was barely winded. Clay had slowed down because he was in no rush. He had all the time in the world.

  The three riders gradually descended the Dragoons. Soon they passed through a belt of ponderosa pine. Below that was woodland, mainly pinons and junipers. Still lower, and they were in chaparral.

  The general direction in which the Maricopa and the young trooper were heading perplexed Clay. Initially, it had been to the southwest. But ever so gradually, the Maricopa had swung almost due west and started on a beeline for the far horizon.

  So far as Clay knew, there was nothing but mile after mile of rugged, wild terrain ahead of them clear to the Gila River. And even though the Gila River country was home to the Maricopas, it made no sense for the Indian scout to head there. The Maricopa had a duty to report to his superiors at Fort Bowie. Clay shrugged. Wherever the other men were going, he would stick with them until his chance came to close in.

  Another hour elapsed. Two. Then three. Private Calhoun was so sore he could barely sit in the saddle. He was still not used to spending the greater part of every day on horseback. He was a city boy, born and reared in Albany, New York. The only occasions he had ridden had been on rare visits to a cousin who lived in the country on a farm.

  Reminiscing about his cousin made Calhoun scowl. He should have listened to her. Marcy warned him that he was making a fool of himself by enlisting and going west to find adventure. But Calhoun had refused to pay her any mind. It was his life. He knew what he was doing.

  Life in Albany had been so damn dull. Calhoun had worked as a clerk in a mercantile, more boring work was hard to imagine. Day in and day out, he had either stood behind a counter making change, stacked shelves, or marked prices on merchandise. The same three tasks over and over and over again until he dreaded going to work.

  Calhoun had needed something different, something exciting. One day he had been strolling along a downtown street and seen a poster advertising the wonderful careers being offered by the army. He had stood in front of the poster; fascinated by the artist’s depiction of a noble cavalryrtian charging across a plain, his saber extended, a horde of red devils fleeing from his wrath.

  That was the life! Calhoun had decided on the spot. He would get to travel, to meet new people, to do new things. Best of all, he would be issued a revolver, a saber, and a rifle. He would spend his days making the frontier safe for lonely widows and pretty girls, who would be ever so grateful.

  He daydreamed that he single-handedly decimated the Sioux nation and was rewarded for his gallantry with a parade in New York City. The daughter of the governor pinned on his medal and fell in love with him instantly. That fantasy had always ended with the two of them walking hand in hand into the sunset.

  Calhoun shook his head at his own idiocy. There he was, the mighty slayer of Sioux by the hundreds, running from a single Apache! It was enough to make him laugh, and he did, bitter] w

  Marcy had been right. Army life was not as Calhoun had expected it to be. In its own way, army life was as much of a drag as the mercantile business. Back at the post, his days were spent drilling on the parade ground, tending his horse, drilling some more, sweeping out the stable, then even more drilling. Two weeks of such drudgery had been enough to make Calhoun scream. He had actually been happy when picked to go on patrol with Captain Eldritch. And look at where that assignment had gotten him!

  Up ahead, the Maricopa entered a wide canyon. He slowed and looked back, surprised to see Calhoun following him. Angling to a low rocky knoll, the warrior reined up at the top to wait for the private to catch up.

  Calhoun thought the man insane. Coming to a stop halfway up the slope, he gestured behind him and said, “Do you want to die, Injun? That damned Apache is right behind us!”

  “You mistake, white-eye,” the Maricopa said in English so atrocious the words were almost foreign. “Him not there now.”

  “What?” Calhoun shifted in the saddle. Sure enough, the Apache was nowhere in sight. “But that can’t be! He was there just a few minutes ago! I saw him with my own eyes!”

  “Apaches clever. Never know what they do,” the Maricopa said. He was a robust man, his skin a lot like tanned leather, his long hair worn in massive plaits except for his bangs, which were cut even with the eyebrows. Cocking his head at the private, he asked, “Why you follow me, white-eye?”

  Calhoun snorted. “What a stupid question! How else am I to find Captain Eldritch? Now lead on and get us to the place where we’re supposed to meet him without delay!”

  A hint of a smile touched the Maricopa’s mouth. “You think I go to patrol?”

  “Of course! Where else would you be—” Calhoun stopped as a disturbing insight dawned. “Wait a minute! Do you mean to say that you’re not on your way to rejoin the captain?”

  “No, Eldritch that way.” The Maricopa pointed off in an entirely different direction from the one they had been taking.

  Bewildered, Calhoun nudged his mount higher. “Then you must be heading for Fort Bowie!”

  “No, Bowie that way.” Again the scout pointed.

  Almost beside himself with rising anger, Calhoun said, “Then where in the hell are you going, Injun?”

  “Home.”

  “Where?” Calhoun asked, suspecting he had not heard correctly.

  “My village. My people,” the Maricopa said. “I no be scout. I no work for white-eyes anymore.”

  Unbidden, a few snatches of conversation Calhoun had overheard before leaving the post came back to him. Sergeant O’Shaughnessy had been talking to an officer named Forester, complaining that he didn’t like the scout chosen for the patrol. The Maricopa was new, untested, O’Shaughnessy had said. The sergeant would much rather have had one of the Tontos. But Forester had told him that the colonel’s decision was final. The commanding officer wanted to give the Maricopa a chance to prove himself.

  “Why, you rotten coward!” Calhoun said. “The first fight you’re in, and you tuck your tail between your legs and run off! I have half a mind to pull you off that pinto and thrash you.”

  “I think not,” the Maricopa said. Smirking, he leveled the carbine supplied to him by the Fifth Cavalry at Calhoun’s head. “I think maybe you talk too much, white-eye.”

  Calhoun recoiled just as a shot rang out.

  Four

  Marshal Tom Crane was in a sour mood. When that happened, he had a habit of stalking the streets of Tucson in search of anyone foolish enough to cross him so he could vent his spleen in the manner he liked best.

  On this particular day, as Crane was passing Leatherwood’s stable, he heard angry voices rise inside. Without breaking stride, he angled to the open double door to find out what the fuss was all about.

  Leatherwood and a man Crane had never seen before were nose to nose. Both were red in the face. The proprietor picked that moment to jab a finger into the other’s chest and say, “You’ll pay the damn bill, or you’ll never get your horse back, mister! And that’s final!”

  “Like hell!” the stranger said. Wearing a rumpled suit and a dusty bowler, he carried a black bag. Some people might have mistaken him for a doctor, but Marshal Crane knew the man for what he really was: a drummer. “You’re trying to gouge me, you slimy weasel! You figure that, just because I’m only passing through, you can get away with fleecing me!

  Leatherwood held out a callused hand. “That’ll be four dollars. Pay up or get out of here before I toss you out on your ear.”

  Fuming, the drummer reached into a vest pocket and produced a handful of coins. Counting them, he replaced two, then said, “Here’s two dollars. That’s the going rate.
Take it.”

  “Like hell,” Leatherwood said. “I won’t accept a cent less than four.”

  “Why, you—” the drummer growled and balled his fist.

  Marshal Crane entered, the thumb of his right hand tucked under his gun belt, inches from his Colt. “Gentlemen!” he said. “I would suggest the two of you hold down the ruckus or you’ll answer to me.”

  The owner of the stable took a step back, a hand rising to his throat. “Marshal! We’re just having a little disagreement. There’s no need for you to get involved.”

  The drummer thought otherwise. Facing the lawman, he said, “Thank goodness, you’re here. I want to file a complaint. This man thinks he can overcharge me and get away with it! Out and out robbery, that’s what it is! I demand that you do something about it! I demand that he be called to account!”

  Crane halted in front of the stranger. “You do, do you?”

  “That’s right!” the drummer said. “And I won’t take no for an answer! I know my rights!”

  Crane’s draw was a blur. In a smooth motion, he slammed the barrel of his pistol across the man’s temple, and the drummer staggered back against a stall, losing his bowler and dropping his bag of wares. “That’s for disturbing the peace,” Crane said. Closing in, he raised the Colt.

  The drummer grasped at the lawman’s shirt. “Please, no!” he cried. “I didn’t mean—”

  Crane slashed the barrel downward. It caught the man above the right eye and opened a two-inch gash from which blood spurted. “That’s for resisting arrest.”

  Tottering, the drummer tried to run out into the street, but he only managed to take several wobbly steps before he collapsed onto his knees. “No more! I beg you! No more!”

  Tom Crane paid him no heed. Striding up, he said coldly, “And this is for being a stupid son of a bitch who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.” His right leg shot out, his boot ramming into the man’s gut.

  Sputtering and gasping, the drummer doubled over. He was still conscious, but barely.

  Leatherwood, frozen in place until that moment, found his voice. “Marshal, for the love of God! There’s no need for this! We could have settled it ourselves!”

  Crane glared, and the stable owner shriveled against a post. “How would you like me to haul you in for interfering with a law officer in the performance of his duties?”

  Licking his thin lips, Leatherwood vigorously shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Do what you have to.”

  Marshal Crane twirled his Colt into its holster with a flourish. Picking up the bowler and the valise, he grabbed the drummer by the back of the collar and proceeded to drag the man from the livery. A low chuckle drew his gaze to a man leaning against the door. “What the hell are you laughing at?”

  Rafe Skinner was tall, lean, and whipcord tough. The owner of the Acme always wore the finest of clothes, from his wide-brimmed gray felt hat down to his shiny black boots. It was common knowledge that the women of Tucson considered him the handsomest man in town. Rumor had it that Skinner carried a mirror in a jacket pocket just so he could admire himself when he got the hankering. “My, my,” he said, falling into step with the lawman, “aren’t you in a fine fettle this bright and sunny day?”

  “Go jump off a building,” Crane said.

  A few passersby stopped to gawk as the drummer was hauled down the middle of the street. An elderly matron in a bonnet shook a bony finger at the lawman in reproach.

  Rafe Skinner laughed. “The good people of Tucson sure do think highly of you, don’t they? Any day now they should get around to erecting a statue in your honor.”

  Had anyone else spoken to Crane with such contempt, he would have kicked in his teeth. But Rafe Skinner was a rarity, one of the few genuine friends Crane had. They were a lot alike in that both of them pretended to make their living legally while milking the shady side of the law for all it was worth.

  “Don’t you have something better to do than give me a hard time?” Crane said.

  “Yes, but it wouldn’t be half as much fun.” Rafe clapped Crane on the shoulder. “You really should learn to relax more. One of these days you’ll give yourself an ulcer.”

  The drummer started to struggle. Halting, Crane turned and kicked him in the back of the head. “Be still, you, or I’ll bust your skull wide open.” Going on, Crane ignored the hard stares of the townsfolk on the boardwalks.

  Skinner laughed. “Maybe you should come by my place later. I’ll fix you up with Ethel. You like her, as I recollect. An hour or two with her will drain all the spite out of your system.”

  “You talk too much.”

  Unruffled, Skinner smiled at a pair of pretty young women and raised a finger to his hat brim. “Howdy, ladies,” he said suavely. “Nice day for a stroll.”

  When the women coyly averted their faces, Skinner sniffed like a bloodhound on a hot scent. “Women! How they do delight and dazzle! They’re proof, if any were needed, that God exists. Imagine how miserable our existence would be without their fair, luscious forms!”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of flapping your gums?” Crane asked testily. “The next thing I know, you’ll be quoting more of that rotten poetry you like so much.”

  Skinner pursed his lips. “It wouldn’t hurt you, Thomas, to acquire a little culture. It impresses the ladies no end, and I hear tell that a very special lady is coming to pay you a visit.”

  Crane halted so abruptly that the drummer bumped into his legs. “Let me guess. Weaver.”

  “He was in my place last night and had a few drinks too many,” Rafe said. “Don’t hold it against him though. I was the only person he told.”

  Crane had specifically asked his deputy not to breathe a word of Tessa’s visit to anyone, and Weaver had given his word that he would. Somehow or other Crane was going to pay the jackass back. Maybe he’d come up with an excuse to dock Weaver a week’s pay.

  “So tell me,” Skinner said, “how is it that you never mentioned having a daughter? Hell, you never even let me know you were married before.”

  “A man’s personal life is his own affair,” Crane said. “My marriage to Maggie was a mistake. She was a dove at the time, the first woman I ever bedded. I was young at the time. I thought I was in love. So we got hitched two nights after we met. About three months later, Maggie left. Later, I got a letter from her claiming she’d had a daughter by me. Now you know everything. Satisfied?”

  “Have you been in touch with the daughter over the years?”

  “Now and then, she’d write, mostly kid stuff,” Crane said. “As she got older, the letters stopped coming as often. I’d about given up of ever hearing from her again. Now she’s coming to see me. Who would have thought it?”

  Rafe Skinner had been a gambler before he’d bought the Acme. To be successful in his line of work, a man had to be able to read people as well as he read cards. “Why is it I get the notion that you’re not very happy about her visit?”

  The jail appeared around the next corner. Marshal Crane jerked the drummer to his feet and spun him around. “Get walking, pilgrim. And don’t trip or I’ll boot you the rest of the way.” Throwing open the door, he practically threw the hapless man inside, then propelled him to a cell and locked him in. “What’s your name, anyhow?”

  “Jones. Arthur Jones,” the morose man said meekly.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Jones,” Crane said. “I’ll write up the papers and take you over to see the judge later on. He’ll set your fine.”

  Jones swallowed. “What if I don’t have enough money to pay it?”

  Tom Crane grinned. “Then you get to stick around a while and have the pleasure of my company.” Hanging the keys on a peg, he went to his desk and eased into the chair. He looked at Skinner, who stood at the window watching several women go by. “Are you still here?”

  “You never answered me,” Rafe said.

  “No, I didn’t. A smart man like you should take that as a hint.”

  Disr
egarding the comment, the Acme’s owner said, “If I had a daughter, I’d be plumb pleased to have her stay a spell. Think of it, Tom. She’s your own flesh and blood.”

  “I haven’t thought of anything else since I got her letter.” Propping his elbows on his desk, he scowled and placed his forehead in his hands. “Damn it all, Rafe, the last thing I need is for her to waltz around Tucson letting everybody know she’s my kin. You know as well as I do that most of the people in this town rate me as high as a sidewinder. The only reason I wear a tin star is because Miles Gillett wants me to.”

  Skinner sat and braced his boots on the edge of the desk. “You’re fretting over nothing. I doubt anyone will come right out and tell her.”

  “Maybe so, but I still wish to hell she wasn’t coming,” Crane said. Leaning back, he sighed. “I’d sell my soul to the devil if it would stop her from showing up.”

  Clay Taggart, the White Apache, couldn’t rightly say what had made him do what he did. He had the trooper squarely in his sights. He could have dropped the soldier, then slain the warrior with two swift shots. It was certainly his intention to kill them both.

  But when Clay unexpectedly saw the Maricopa point a carbine at the young soldier he acted without thinking. Clearly, the warrior was going to shoot the private. Clay had no idea why.

  Shifting, Clay aligned the sights of his Winchester on the center of the scout’s chest and stroked the trigger. The .44 bucked and boomed.

  Over 150 yards off, Private James Calhoun was shocked to see the top of the Maricopa’s head explode in a shower of gore. The impact smashed the scout head over heels past the rump of the pinto. The animal promptly took off at a terror-stricken gallop.

  Almost as terrified as the horse, Calhoun turned and spied a puff of gunsmoke on the north rim of the canyon. The Apache was up there, trying to pick them off! Snapping his carbine to his shoulder, Calhoun did as he had been taught and fired at the smoke. Then, applying his heels to the sorrel and bending low to present a smaller target, he fled on down the canyon as if a demon from hell were nipping at his heels.