Feet pounded. Someone shouted, but Crane couldn’t distinguish the words. It was Rafe Skinner. He had grabbed Crane by the shoulders and torn the lawman off the soldier before he could beat the young man half to death. “Simmer down, Tom!”
“Let go of me!” The lawman’s pent-up frustrations and simmering hatred of Clay Taggart had found a release, and he wanted nothing more than to pound the trooper into the ground, to grind Calhoun under his bootheels until his wrath evaporated.
Skinner spun the marshal away and crouched, his right hand hovering near his Remington. Over the years, he had lost track of the number of times he had seen Crane go nearly berserk with fury. The most recent incident had been ten months ago when Crane had pistol-whipped an unruly cowboy nearly into a coma. “I won’t let you cripple him or worse. He’s just doing what he thinks is right.”
No one there expected Tom Crane to draw. The lawman and the saloon owner had always been the best of friends. Skinner himself, despite all that had happened, believed they had been pards for too long for Crane to throw down on him. Every last man there was wrong.
Crane’s Colt leapt and boomed, and Rafe Skinner was jolted backward by a jarring smash to his right shoulder.
Swaying, he looked at the bullet hole and said in amazement, “Damn, Tom! You shot me!”
The tableau froze. No one was more shocked than Tom Crane. Until that morning, Rafe Skinner had been his best – some might say his only – friend. Crane had counted on patching up their misunderstanding later on. But Crane’s temper had ridden roughshod over his willpower. In a blind rage he had put a slug into the only person in the entire world who gave a hoot if he lived or died.
“Rafe, I—” Crane stepped forward, but Skinner made a sound like a riled cougar and pushed him back.
“Don’t you dare, Tom! Not after what you just did!” Skinner teetered. His legs wobbled.
Calhoun had recovered enough to loop an arm around the man who had helped him, repaying the favor by slowly lowering Skinner to the ground. Not much blood flowed, which surprised Calhoun. He had always been under the impression that, when someone was shot, he spouted blood.
Crane automatically shed the spent cartridge and inserted a new one. Holstering his revolver, he marched to his horse and forked leather. “Do what you can for Rafe,” he said to Thorson and Gritz. Then, raking his spurs, he trotted off into Devil’s Canyon.
Calhoun almost sprang in front of the lawman. A groan from Skinner brought him to his senses. Quivering with hatred, he had to stand there and watch in impotent indignation as the lawman and the old man in buckskins departed.
Marshal Crane and Clell Baxter went around the far side of a knoll and were gone. And all Calhoun could do was say the one word that had come to mean the world to him, “Tessa!”
Eleven
Tessa Heritage gave the young soldier a last longing look as the black stallion swept around a knoll. Calhoun’s expression was ample proof that he felt the same way about her that she felt about him. She was going to wave, but the knoll blocked him from view before she could lift an arm.
It took some doing, but Tessa shut Calhoun from her thoughts for the time being. A more immediate concern demanded her attention. “What do you intend to do with me, Mr. Taggart?”
White Apache was studying the lay of the canyon, seeking the ideal spot to carry out his vengeance. He did not like being distracted. “Keep your mouth closed, woman, unless I say otherwise.”
Tessa resented being treated so callously, but her abductor s tone left little doubt that he was in no frame of mind to be bothered. She could sense that a change of some sort had come over him. He was colder, harder, more abrupt. He even sat his horse differently: straighter, his head held high, an almost savage air about him.
White Apache slowed down to examine a cluster of boulders that might do for his purpose. It soon became apparent, though, that none were quite broad enough to completely screen the stallion from random gunshots, so he went on. He would not let any harm befall his mount.
Devil’s Canyon owed its name to the Spanish, who had called it Cañón del Diablo long before the arrival of the white man. Their reason for so naming the region was shrouded in mystery. Some claimed it had to do with a priest who had been part of a wagon train. The wagon train had stopped in the canyon for the night, and at some point, the priest had supposedly seen a vision of the Devil. Another tale claimed the name was derived from ancient Indian sources that said the very first Indians to settle in the region had believed the canyon was home to evil spirits or demons.
The old stories were of no consequence to White Apache. No devils or demons were going to prevent him from doing what had to be done.
A dark opening at the base of the right-hand wall attracted White Apache’s attention. It turned out to be a shallow pit worn down by erosion, the opening was neither deep enough nor wide enough to suit him. He went on.
Another quarter of a mile fell behind them. White Apache was growing vexed. He didn’t like to think that he had gone to so much trouble for nothing.
Then a high earthen bank appeared on the left. White Apache veered over, his interest piqued by a cleft in the center of the bank, a cleft wide enough for the big stallion to pass through with ease. On the other side was an open space bordered by a field of jumbled boulders. If he had to make a hasty retreat, the boulders would shield him nicely. The bank’s facing slope was gradual, not steep.
That would do, White Apache grimly reflected. Swinging a leg over the stallion’s neck, he slid off. He ordered his captive to get down. Not waiting to confirm if she obeyed, he dashed to the top. There, he had a clear line of fire in all directions. No one could get anywhere near him without being spotted. The closest cover had to be well over 500 yards off, well beyond the range of a Winchester or Henry.
Tessa stood meekly by the horse, waiting for Taggart to come down. She knew better than to attempt to ride off. The renegade would drop her in a heartbeat.
Warily watching him descend, Tessa was startled to see a strange gleam animating his deep blue eyes. It reminded her of dancing flames or the flicker of candles. When he looked at her, he seemed to gaze right through her.
“Turn around,” White Apache said. She hesitated too long to suit him, prompting him to seize her arm and spin her around. “Stand still,” he said, kneeling.
The Bowie made short shrift of the hem of her dress. Using two strips, White Apache bound Tessa’s wrist and ankles. As an afterthought, he gagged her, saying, “I can’t have you warning your father.”
Moving the stallion away from the gap where it would be safe, White Apache let the reins dangle. He checked his rifle and pistol. Both were fully loaded. As ready as he would ever be, he climbed to the top, stretching out on his stomach just below the rim. The gap was a few feet away to his left.
Since there was no sign yet of the lawman, White Apache set down his rifle and cast about the slope for a long, thin rock. Finding one that resembled a spike, he crouched near the top and rapidly dug a groove about two inches deep and three feet long. In it, he laid the Winchester, then sprinkled dust over the barrel.
The trick was as old as the hills. The dust prevented sunlight from glinting off the metal and giving his position away. Lying flat once more, White Apache focused on the spot where he expected Tom Crane to appear. He was so eager to get revenge that he quivered with excitement.
Below, lying on her right side, Tessa Heritage had to tilt her head far back to see the crest twenty feet above. Taggart was so intent on killing her father that he was paying absolutely no attention whatsoever to her.
Tessa had a decision to make. Was she going to lie there helplessly while her own flesh and blood was murdered? So what if she had never met Crane? So what if he had neglected her over the years? And what did it really matter if he had a reputation as the worst law officer in Arizona? Thomas Crane was still her father. She owed it to him to try to warn him of the White Apache’s trap, even if doing so cost her life.<
br />
Slowly hiking her knees to her chest, Tessa used her elbow for leverage and pumped herself a few inches closer to the gap. She was careful not to make any noise that might alert her captor. Freezing for a few seconds in case he glanced down, she bunched her shoulder and stomach muscles, then pitched forward.
Inch by gradual inch, Tessa neared the gap. She could not help scraping against the ground occasionally, but never loud enough to be heard. The swish of her dress was a mere whisper.
The whole time, Clay Taggart peered off over the rim, as immobile as a boulder. The Apaches had taught him well.
It took a lifetime, or that was how Tessa felt when, at long last, she crawled into the gap and was promptly shrouded in shadow. Making bold to go faster, she pushed up onto her knees and hunched along like an oversize snail, her knees wriggling back and forth.
The gap ran eight feet from end to end. Tessa covered half of that distance and cracked a grin in anticipation of thwarting Taggart’s scheme.
Then a darker shadow fell across her. Shifting, Tessa was horrified to find the butcher in midair, his features as feral as those of a rabid wolf.
White Apache was incensed. He had shown the woman every consideration, going out of his way to avoid harming her. Where Fiero would have beaten her into submission, he had merely been firm. Where Delgadito would have made her grovel and obey every whim, he had accorded her a measure of dignity.
Not anymore! Few things riled him like having a kindness thrown back in his face. Landing next to her, White Apache gripped her by the hair and yanked her face up close to his. “You’ve brought this on yourself!”
Tessa squealed as she was roughly dragged back, the gag muffled her outcry. She lashed out with both legs, but the angle was all wrong for her to connect. Twisting her head only made the pain worse, so she let herself be hauled to where the stallion stood. Without ceremony, she was dumped on her back.
“Try that again and you’ll lose some teeth,” White Apache said. Quickly taking his place near the top, he surveyed the west end of the canyon and was overjoyed to detect wisps of smoke drawing nearer. It wouldn’t be long.
Marshal Tom Crane was thinking the same thing. His right hand resting on his Colt, he probed every nook and cranny. Beads of sweat trickled down his spine, and every so often, he would catch himself holding his breath.
Crane was scared. He’d never admit as much to a living soul, but he was deathly afraid of dying. Worse, he couldn’t stand the idea of being slain by the likes of Clay Taggart.
The lawman had not held anything personal against the rancher that day Miles Gillett had come to town and told him to organize a lynch party. The request had just been the latest in an endless string of jobs he had done for Gillett.
It had embarrassed Crane tremendously when he had learned Taggart had somehow survived and taken up with a pack of renegade Apaches. Gillett had been livid. Crane couldn’t blame the man since he had paid good money to make sure things were done properly. For the first time ever, Crane had failed.
That was when the situation with Taggart had become personal. Crane not only had a score to settle, he had to redeem himself in Gillett’s eyes. The rich man never tolerated fools, and he certainly did not abide incompetents. If Miles Gillett were to think that Crane was no longer able to get the work done, he was not above removing the marshal from office and replacing him with someone who could.
Crane wouldn’t let that happen. He depended on the money Gillett lavished on him to be able to retire one day with enough to tide him over until he was planted in a grave.
Passing a knoll, Crane came to an open tract. Immediately a sixth sense he had honed over the years flared up. A tiny voice screamed in his head that he should wheel his horse and get the hell out of there while he could. But he rode on, studying a high earthen bank to the north. Nothing moved along the crest, nor was there any telltale gleam of sunlight off a rifle barrel. Still, something told him that was where Taggart must be.
Someone else shared those sentiments. Clell Baxter had been through Devil’s Canyon before. As was typical of any frontiersman worthy of the name, he had a phenomenal memory for landmarks and the lay of the land in general. So it was that, when the lawman had passed two likely spots for an ambush and not been attacked, Baxter had become convinced that the White Apache lay in wait on the earthen bank.
Veering to the north, Baxter paralleled the lawman instead of trailing behind. He held his horse to a slow walk to avoid raising dust. On reaching the last knoll, Baxter dismounted and crept to the rim. Leery of exposing himself to the turncoat, he hiked an eyeball high enough to peek over.
At that moment, Marshal Tom Crane was fifty yards out. He searched for tracks, but the earth was so rocky that none were evident. Going another fifty yards, he noticed a gap in the bank. Shaded by the high wall of dirt, the gap was as likely a place for Taggart to be as any other.
The clomp of his mount’s hooves echoed dully off the towering canyon walls. No other sounds could be heard, not even the wind that whipped Crane’s hat and plucked at his shirt.
200 yards of open ground were covered without incident. Then 300. Crane wondered if maybe he had been mistaken.
But White Apache had the marshal of Tucson dead in the sights of his Winchester. All Clay Taggart had to do was stroke the trigger when Crane came a little closer. The corners of his mouth curled as his finger did likewise around the trigger. He held his breath to steady his aim. Pivoting on his heels, he tracked Crane as the man came steadily closer.
The lawman was less than 100 yards out when a strange thing happened. White Apache suddenly dipped the barrel of his rifle over an inch. Without hesitation, he fired.
Tom Crane heard the sickening fleshy smack of hot lead as it ripped into the side of his horse. Voicing a strident whinny, the animal staggered, shook, and fell. Crane pushed off from the saddle, seeking to leap clear, but his left spur snagged on the stirrup. Franticly, he tugged with all his strength. His boot popped free, but before he could spring, the horse toppled on top of his leg, pinning him.
Fully expecting another bullet to tear into him at any second, Crane shoved against the dead animal. He couldn’t move it. In desperation, he threw himself backward, pulling at his trapped limb, which wouldn’t move. Bending, he grabbed the saddle horn for extra leverage and heaved upward. It was then that he saw the bronzed figure stalking toward him.
White Apache had the Winchester wedged to his shoulder, the sights settled squarely on the lawman. He advanced cautiously, the barrel never wavering until he was twenty feet from the man who had strung him up and left him for the buzzards to feast on. Raw, bitter emotion almost overwhelmed him.
“Remember me, bastard?” Clay Taggart said.
Marshal Crane held himself perfectly still, his hands resting on the saddle horn. To make a stab for his pistol would earn him a round in the chest before he could hope to clear leather, so he made no abrupt moves. His hope was that Clell Baxter would come to his aid before Taggart got around to firing. Stalling, he said, “I never forget the face of someone I’ve hanged.”
Clay’s boiling core erupted. Storming forward, he stood poised to shoot. The Winchester’s muzzle was mere inches from the lawman’s brow. “You dare to rub my nose in it, sidewinder?”
Crane realized the statement had been a mistake the moment the words were out of his mouth. He braced for the searing pain of impact, but the turncoat didn’t fire. “Take it as a compliment, mister. All I meant is that you re a tough hombre to kill.”
“A compliment?” Clay said, flabbergasted. “You helped Miles Gillett ruin my life, and I’m supposed to be flattered?” Overpowering hatred coursed through him. Taking another step, he kicked the lawman.
Crane tried to dodge, but pinned as he was, he caught a glancing blow to the shoulder that smashed him onto his back. He looked up at Taggart, his gut balling into a knot. Never had he seen anyone so close to the razor edge of going berserk.
Without being obvious, Cra
ne glanced westward, seeking some sign of Clell Baxter. There had been plenty of time for the old-timer to catch up and discover his plight. So why hadn’t the man done anything? What in the hell was Baxter waiting for?
At that instant, on top of the knoll, the frontiersman did indeed have his Sharps trained on the White Apache, but he held his fire because of the potential danger to the marshal. Even though Clell was confident the Sharps would drop Taggart where the man stood, there was a chance that Taggart’s trigger finger might coil in automatic reflex. If that happened, the Winchester would go off and send a bullet into Crane.
Baxter gnawed on his lower lip, biding his time until Taggart either lowered the rifle or seemed about to shoot.
Clay was in no rush to do either. “Do you want to know why I shot your horse out from under you instead of shooting you?” he asked Crane while leaning down. “I wanted the pleasure of watching you die up close. I want to see the look in your eyes. I want to hear you gasp your last breath.”
Again Crane glanced westward. Where are you, Baxter? he wanted to shout.
Clay slowly straightened up. Contempt replaced the hatred, and he let the Winchester drop a trifle. “It’s a good thing your daughter won’t see this. She doesn’t deserve to have a polecat like you for a father.”
“Tessa?” Crane had forgotten all about her since his clash with Rafe Skinner. “Where is she?”
Clay wagged an elbow at the earthen bank. “Over yonder, tied up good and proper.” He was sorry that he had neglected to plug her ears so she wouldn’t hear the screams.
“What do you aim to do with her?” Crane asked, continuing to stall. It didn’t matter to him whether she was alive or dead.
“What do you care?” Clay said. The Winchester dropped lower as he reached for his Bowie knife.
White Apache 10 Page 12