Apache Gunhawk

by Monogram Press

Captain Stowe and his men had found shelter in a small canyon. The walls towered high above them and the rims seemed to lean toward each other as the rock strata at the base of the canyon had eroded away from years of flowing river water eating at them. How long ago the river had dried up and ceased gnawing at the rock, would be anybody’s guess. The canyon rims were covered with trees and large branches reached partially across the chasm on each side creating a partial ceiling.

  The troopers huddled close to the rock wall, evading as much of the rain and wind as they could. They had managed to sustain a fire beneath one particularly large outcropping of rock, but there was little room for all the men to gather around at once, so they had to take turns at the warmth.

  After Geronimo and his followers had made the break, the Captain, knowing that pursuit of the fugitives in the dark and heavy storm, was impossible, had led his men to this canyon to spend the night. They would head out in search of them once again in the morning.

  Here in the canyon, they had found a few scraggly poplar trees and had tied each of the three Apaches, that had not managed to get away, to the base of them. Guards were assigned to stand watch and would be relieved when it came their turn to be warmed by the fire. The horses had been picketed a short distance away and guards were posted there as well.

  The night wore on and it was a couple of hours past midnight, when a patch of brush on the bottom of the canyon moved slightly. A dark figure crawled silently through the thicket and peeked out just as one the guards, who was watching the prisoners, paced by, about five yards away. The crouching Apache, held a thick stick about three feet long and about four inches thick at the far end. As the soldier stepped by, the red skinned assailant sprang swiftly and silently out of the bush, swinging the heavy club and bashing in the back of the trooper’s head with a solid whack.

  The soldier’s knees buckled and he sank to the ground, dropping his rifle beside him. The Indian dove to the ground beside him, dropping the club and retrieving the rifle. He was just rolling the trooper over and unbuttoning the flap of his holster to relieve him of his service revolver, when the other guard, closer to the prisoners, turned and noticed his companion was not in sight. His brows pulled together, wondering. He lifted his rifle and started to approach the other guard’s appointed position, when another dark body leaped out of the brush behind him. He had scarcely started to turn toward the sudden movement, when a club struck him solidly on the side of his head. He died instantly without ever knowing what happened.

  The Apache retrieved this guard’s rifle and stripped him of his pistol also. On closer inspection, the Indian found that the guard carried a knife inside the top of his boot. He slipped it out and raised it high in the air so his companion could see it, then turned and ran to the trees where the prisoners were tied. The other Apache acknowledge and followed him quickly.

  As the knife slipped through the ropes holding the prisoners and their hands came free, pistols were tossed to two of them. They caught them, sprang to their feet and followed their rescuers to where the horses were picketed. They made no secret of their advance. The guards were taken by surprise and upon seeing the attacking Apaches, raised their rifles instinctively, but too late. Muzzles flashed in the darkness and the roar of gunshots echoed through the canyon. The guards fell, riddled with bullets. Shouts and yells from further inside the canyon near the campfire went up immediately.

  More shadows emerged from the brush, rushing to the bodies of the fallen soldiers and retrieving their weapons.

  They had mounted horses and were wheeling them about and shagging the other horses, that they had no use for, away toward the mouth of the canyon, when Captain Stowe and his remaining troopers ran into the area. The soldiers opened fire: their weapons belching flame and lighting up the darkness of the night.

  The horses were milling and charging about. Mounted Indian’s fired back as their horses reared and flailed about. A trooper next to Stowe took a round in the stomach, doubled up and pitched forward to the ground. The Captain fired back, just as a slug buzzed past his ear. The Captain’s shot went wild, but another trooper’s bullet followed his and had found its way home, catching one of the enemy in the chest. He fell from the horse’s back and the animal ran on with the rest of the escaping horses.

  In a matter of minutes, it was all over. The Apaches were gone and so were all the horses. Three Indians lay dead on the canyon floor. Final count of damages revealed a loss of eight men. The four guards plus another three troopers killed in action. Two more had been wounded, but not serious and were still ambulatory.

  Captain Stowe grimaced, fighting with himself, not willing to accept defeat, although he had suffered a crippling blow. His force was now cut in half and they were left stranded without horses, while Geronimo and what was left of his followers, had gotten away with weapons and horses.

  There was nothing he could do for now, but to wait for morning and a break in the storm. They would have to track down the runaway horses on foot, before pursuing the fugitives; thus giving the legendary Apache leader a tremendous head start in his escape.

  Brace Coburn awakened with a start, but found he couldn’t move. A heavy weight pressed down on his chest. Morning had come and the drone of pounding rain against the roof had ceased. Enough light was streaming through the window that he could see the bluish black color of gunmetal an inch before his nose. The gaping muzzle of a forty five sixshooter, loomed as a dark menacing circle as he drew his eyes toward his nose, almost cross eyed, trying to focus on it. Above the gun barrel and the hand holding it, he stared into the sneering face of Little Bill. His cruel lips twisted into a satisfied, but hateful smile.

  The outlaw’s foot was on the lawman’s arm and pressing down on his chest, holding his gun clasped tightly to his body. “Take a good look at the dawn, my friend,” Little Bill chuckled as he pulled the pistol from the marshal’s hand and released his foot. “It’s the last one you’re going to see.” He stood up straight, pulling the gun’s muzzle away from his face. “Get up!” He ordered, brandishing the weapon.

  The question had barely begun to form on Coburn’s lips, when reasoned the answer. He looked past the big outlaw and saw Elly Kemp standing there with a look of self-satisfaction and victory on her face. The little fool, Coburn thought to himself, had let herself be charmed by the young outlaw and he had persuaded the impressionable girl into releasing him and providing him with his gun. Realizing there would be no point in condemning the girl nor chastising her for her foolishness, the lawman refrained from making a comment. Without saying a word, he slowly pushed himself to his feet. His captor stepped back a pace, giving Coburn room to stand and keeping him far enough away that the big man could not make a move without risking a bullet.

  “My pa’s gonna be real happy to see you, Mister.” Little Bill grinned.

  Morning Light streamed in suddenly, lighting up the interior of the barn as the big door slammed open with a bang. Following a forceful shove, Brace Coburn staggered forward, landing in a heap on the floor in front of the Noonan gang. Their morning breakfast interrupted, Bill, Tom and Charlie jumped to their feet, hands clawing for their guns, but freezing in motion as they heard Little Bill’s laughter echoing in the big barn. They breathed sighs of relief and relaxed, letting the pistols fall back into their holsters, as they saw Little Bill swagger in. He was smiling smugly and brandishing his six gun loosely. A young girl followed him in, keeping a pace behind and a little to his left.

  “Lookee, lookee, everybody,” he chirped. “Just take a gander at the big fish I done caught.”

  Bill Noonan stepped forward and pulled the big man to his feet. A wide, victorious grin spread over the outlaw’s face as he recognized the big lawman through the trickle of blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, where Little Bill had pistol whipped him; getting even for the beating he had taken the night before.

  “Well, well, well,” the elder Noonan chuckled. “Looks like you chased me until I caught you, Marsh
al.”

  Coburn remained silent. Just glared at the outlaw chief.

  “You mean, I caught him, Pa,” Little Bill reminded.

  “No matter,” Bill said. “The important thing is we got him.” He looked past Little Bill quizzically. “Who’s she?” He snapped. “Where’s the old man?” Sudden concern was in his tone.

  “The old man’s in the house. We don’t have to worry about him. Not as long as I got this sweet miss with me. This here’s his daughter, Elly.” He nodded toward her and she smiled shyly.

  Noonan’s eyes darted back and forth, thinking. “Don’t worry, Pa,” Little Bill repeated. “I got everything under control.” He waved his pistol loosely toward Coburn as a reminder. “Now haven’t I?”

  Bill Noonan grinned again, with approval. “Yes, son. You did good. You did real good.”

  Tom Noonan felt a sudden tightness in the pit of his stomach as sibling rivalry raised its ugly head.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this, Coburn,” Noonan said. “Now you’re going to pay for what you did to my father.”

  “Ace Noonan, got what he deserved,” Coburn retorted. “Just like you will one day.”

  “Too bad you won’t be around to see it,” the outlaw leader sneered.

  Coburn was silent for a moment, gazing at the other members of the gang and the woman. His glance lingered on the bearded old man. Sid Denglert shifted uneasily on his feet; apprehension in his eyes.

  There was something familiar about the old man that tugged at Coburn’s recollection.

  “But, you promised,” Elly Kemp whined. “You said you’d take me with you.”

  Little Bill swung into the saddle and smiled down at her. “And I will, little darlin’,” the outlaw lied glibly; sugar dripping off his tongue. His horse pawed at the dirt, chomping at the bit, ready to go. Little Bill pulled the reins high, holding the horse in place. The other members of the gang were already mounted. Brace Coburn’s hands had been tied to the pommel of his saddle. Charlie Noonan had the reins of the black in his hands.

  “Don’t you worry, sweetie,” Little Bill said, still smiling. “I just gotta get us some money, first. I’ll be back in a few days. I promise.” He gigged his horse forward, to follow the others as they moved out.

  The girl beamed with excitement, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she had a glimmer of a doubt. She wanted to believe, he was sincere, so she did.

  Elly stood in the barnyard for several minutes, watching the caravan of riders, head off down the trail, until they disappeared around the bend. She raised her hand and waved slowly at the emptiness. A tear dripped down her cheek.

  Bill Noonan had felt a little frustrated with his elation over the capture of Brace Coburn. He had always told himself, that if he ever caught up with him, he would kill the man responsible for his father’s death. But somehow, he had always envisioned meeting the lawman in battle and taking him down in a fight. Now that he had Coburn prisoner, the only way to exact his revenge was to kill him outright.

  The outlaw leader was never comfortable with killing, but when it had been necessary, it was always when someone was shooting at him. He had never, just murdered anyone, without mercy, and now that was exactly what he had to do.

  Perhaps, it was just procrastination, he had told himself, or perhaps he really did not want to commit the act in front of the Kemps at the farmhouse nor, in particular, he did not want to do it in front of Julie Hadley.

  Anyways, against Little Bill’s and Charlie Noonan’s protests, he had chosen not to shoot the marshal right away, but ride off into the hills, where the job could be done without anyone around to see it or even find the body. Sid Denglert had remained silent on the decision and Bill Noonan seemed to sense that something was bothering Sid. Perhaps, Sid didn’t like the idea of out and out execution either.

  As the gang rode on out of the valley, a horse and rider emerged from the trees at the edge of the ridge above the valley. Dark eyes followed their movement along the trail below. The Apache Gun Hawk nudged the grayish black mora forward and followed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN