White Apache 8

by David Robbins

  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Copyright

  More on David Robbins

  More on Piccadilly Publishing

  Clay Taggart didn’t live like a coward. He and his renegade Indians spent many a day feeding bounty hunters and bushwhackers to the wolves. Then a bloodthirsty trio came after the White Apache and his followers, prepared to slaughter them like sheep. What the trackers didn’t know was that, try as they might, Taggart would never let anyone kill him like a dog.

  To Judy, Joshua, and Shane

  One

  The pale glare of a full moon bathed the stark Arizona landscape. Deep in the Gila Mountains, up thrust spires of rock clawed at the sky as if striving to tear the lunar eye from its socket.

  Over a rocky ridge clattered three shod horses. The animals had been pushed to the limits of their endurance. All of them were caked thick with sweat. They rasped like steam engines when the men astride them hauled on the reins to stop and look back.

  There was a grim air about the men. Their movements were jerky and quick, as if they were high-strung. Their white faces seemed much paler than even the moonlight would allow. It lent them the aspect of living ghosts.

  “Do you think we lost them?” asked the stockiest of the trio in a New England accent. Like his companions, he wore a dusty uniform. Anyone familiar with the military would have known at a glance that Private Earl Fetterman was a trooper in the Fifth Cavalry of the United States Army. Or he had been, at any rate, until early that very morning.

  “Of course we did,” snapped the tallest of the three. “No one can track us over ground that hard.” Private William Stillwell was from Florida. More than anything else in life, he missed being able to take a stroll on the beach and diving into the surf as the whim struck him. That, and a certain young woman named Darcy who had promised to wait forever but who was now seeing his best friend. His former best friend.

  The third man made a sound like a bobcat choking on a bone. “Idiots!” he snarled. Pvt. James Koch was from New York City, which everyone claimed had a lot to do with his chronic sour temper. “Don’t you know not to take anything for granted? I say we don’t rest easy until we reach Denver.” His bay bobbed its head, nearly pulling the reins from his grasp. Hissing, Koch slapped it. “Hell, I won’t relax until I’m back in Queens where I belong. I must have been crazy to dream of joining the Army.”

  “We all were,” Earl agreed.

  The young man from Florida shrugged. “Live and learn, as I always say.” Stillwell clucked to his sorrel. “Now let’s keep going. We have to stay on schedule. By morning we should reach the Salt River.” Earl Fetterman nodded and licked his thick lips. “Provided the horses don’t play out on us. If you ask me, we’ve been pushing them too damn hard.” Private Koch snorted as he fell into place behind Stillwell. “What do you know about horses, Bean Boy? You never rode one until you enlisted, just like the rest of us.”

  “Don’t call me that, friend,” Earl bristled. “I don’t like having anyone poke fun at my home town.”

  Koch’s brittle laugh tinkled on the brisk breeze as the three young soldiers raced northward. Private Fetterman did not mind bringing up the rear. That way he did not have to put up with Koch’s constant smirk or Stillwell’s steady glare.

  Earl felt sorry for the latter. From the first day they met at Fort Bowie, Stillwell had been a happy, carefree fellow. All Stillwell had talked about was the beautiful girl waiting for him in Jacksonville. Stillwell even had a tiny photograph which he kept in a locket worn around his neck. And if the man had shown that picture to Earl once, he had shown it to him a hundred times. It had gotten to the point where Earl half swore that he knew Darcy Thompson’s features better than he did his own sister’s.

  Then Stillwell had gotten that awful letter. The poor man had been all torn up inside. He had ranted and raved and clutched the locket to his chest as if his heart were about to burst.

  Earl had never seen anyone so upset. He supposed that he should not have been very surprised when Stillwell first mentioned desertion, but he had been. Even though all of them hated the Army, even though all of them wished they had never taken the oath, none of them had ever voiced the idea uppermost on all their minds. Until Stillwell did.

  It had amazed Earl to hear anyone talk that way. It had astounded him even more when Koch had chimed in that he was interested. And before Earl quite knew how it happened, he had startled himself by agreeing to go along.

  The truth was that Army life did not suit Earl one bit. He heartily disliked having to get up before the crack of dawn each and every day. He detested the many hours spent at hard labor and on parade. He loathed the boredom of guard duty. And he absolutely despised the Army’s excuse for food.

  Earl Fetterman had been raised in Boston by caring parents. They cared so much that often when he was small they would do his school homework for him to spare him the torment of having to wrestle with problems he was too young to understand. They cared so much that his mother kept his room as neat as a pin without him ever having to lift a finger to help. They cared so much that his father had not made Earl come down to the family business on the docks to help out until Earl was fifteen, and then all Earl had to do was sit in the office and help oversee operations.

  Earl had to admit that he had never quite realized how good he had it until he entered the Army. He fondly recalled the many times his mother had let him sleep in until noon. He remembered all too well the delicious meals she would make for him at any time of the day or night. And his father! How the man had loved to take Earl hunting and fishing and to the races!

  Those were the days, Earl fondly mused. He had been a fool to dream of more, a fool to read those trashy Penny Dreadfuls and to get so fired up with thoughts of adventure and excitement that he had gone downtown and enlisted without first consulting his parents.

  It had been the single greatest mistake of his life.

  But now it was behind him! Earl squared his sloped shoulders and held his head high. He was saying goodbye to Army life forever. Once he was safely back in Boston, he would never leave again. His father was a man of some influence and should be able to secure a discharge without too much trouble. It was widely known that certain high-ranking officers would take money under the table in that regard. Within a month Earl would be right where he belonged, at his desk on the docks, telling the longshoremen how to unload and load ships. Earl could hardly wait.

  Suddenly the night was rent by a wavering howl. Earl slowed and called out, “Did you hear that?”

  Koch answered without turning. “It’s another damn coyote. We must have heard fifty in the past hour alone. Don’t wet yourself over it.”

  Earl did not reply. He resented the insult, but that was just Koch being Koch. As for the howl, he was sure that it was much different than those he had heard earlier, much different than any howl he had ever heard except maybe one.

  Earl thought back to the time he had been on guard duty and a wolf had howled near the fort. The old scout, Sieber, had snickered when he had nearly jumped out of his skin and told him not to worry, that wolves were getting scarce in those parts and that they hardly ever bothered a person and certainly had never been known to band together to attack forts. Earl had known the old scout was having fun at his expense, but he hadn’t minded. Sieber was a likable character who knew more wonderful stories than any man alive.

  That howl, though, had stuck with Earl. Every now a
nd again he remembered it. Usually late at night when he was making the rounds of the horses or on camp perimeter duty. That howl, Earl believed, had been a lot like the one he had just heard.

  Still, Earl was not very worried. Wolves did not attack humans. Sieber had said as much. And even if they did, there were three of them and they all had revolvers and carbines. They could hold a pack of wolves at bay.

  Presently another howl rent the night. This one was much closer. Earl twisted in the saddle to regard the bleak terrain they had crossed. It was almost as if the wolf were following them, an absurd idea.

  Or was it?

  What if it wasn’t a wolf?

  What if it was something else? Something much worse?

  What if they were being trailed by Indians?

  The terrifying thought made a tingle of raw fear shoot down Earl’s spine. He had heard tales, too many to count. Tales of how Indians could imitate any animal alive. Tales of how the savages often yipped like coyotes and wolves to fool those they stalked. Tales of how Indians could slip up on a man without him knowing and slit his throat in the blink of an eye.

  The very worst Indians, of course, were the Apaches. The mere mention of the name was enough to make Earl break out in goosebumps. Everyone knew that Apaches were vicious killers who took delight in ripping hearts from living victims. Older soldiers had told Earl all about the many massacres, and every gory detail of every horrible raid Apaches ever committed.

  It did not matter at all to Earl that the old scout, Sieber, branded many of their tales as outright lies. It did not mean a thing to him that Sieber claimed Indians in general, and Apaches in particular, were no better or worse than white people. Earl knew better. He just knew.

  Earl anxiously scanned the jagged southern horizon. Nothing moved that he could see, but that did not mean much. It was said that Apaches could sneak up on a man in an open field in broad daylight and never be caught It was said that they knew how to turn invisible at will.

  The very worst of them, Earl had been told, were the renegades. Most Apaches were now on reservations, either at San Carlos or the Chiricahua Reservation. But the renegades refused to go to either place. They refused to give up the old ways.

  Sieber had told Earl why. The renegades did not think the government had the right to tell people where to live. The renegades did not want the government to feed them and clothe them, or doctor them when they were sick. The renegades saw the government as a great fat spider trying to suck the lifeblood from their people, and they hated the government for it.

  Frankly, Earl did not see why they were so upset. It had always been nice to have his parents do for him, so the Apaches should be just as grateful to have the government look after them. But there was just no pleasing some people.

  Especially not the very worst of all the renegades, a small band led by the traitor called the White Apache. More stories were told about him than about anyone else. The man had been a rancher once, but turned his back on white ways after he was caught trying to force himself on a neighbor’s wife. Now he butchered and raped and pillaged to his heart s content, and no one seemed able to stop him.

  Sieber had claimed to know Taggart back in the days before the bloodshed began. The scout had taken an oath on the fact that Clay Taggart had been as decent as the day was long. Sieber suspected there was more to the story of Taggart’s turning traitor than was common knowledge.

  Be that as it may, Earl was not about to let the traitor, or any other Apache, get their hands on him. He checked the back trail many times over the next half an hour. Not once did he see any cause for alarm, although he did hear the strange howl twice more and each time it was closer than the time before.

  Shortly after midnight, Stillwell suddenly let out with an oath and drew rein. Koch stopped next to him on the right, so Earl swung to the left.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The young man from Florida slid off his mount and sank to one knee to examine a front leg. “I can’t believe my luck!” Stillwell snapped. “I think my damn horse is going lame.” He roughly ran a hand over the fetlock and the knee as he had been taught and wanted to scream in frustration when he found the leg to be slightly swollen. Nothing had gone right for him since the day he received the letter from Darcy.

  “Is it?” Jim Koch asked, not out of concern for Stillwell. He was thinking of himself, and the fact that he was not about to let Stillwell ride double with him and maybe ruin his own chances of reaching safety.

  “Afraid so.” The lovesick Floridian stood and gestured in disgust. “Now what do we do? I sure as hell can’t walk all the way to Denver.”

  Koch had a ready answer. “If the dumb brute is going to give out on you anyway, you might as well ride it until it drops. Then we’ll make up our minds what to do.”

  Stillwell nodded. It made sense to him. Grabbing the saddle horn, he wearily swung up. “Just don’t push too hard,” he advised. “This nag will last longer that way.”

  Abruptly, to their rear, a wavering howl shattered the crisp night air. Earl spun around so fast that he nearly fell off his horse. He tried to claw his revolver out but fumbled at the heavy flap.

  Koch snickered. “There you go again, Bean Boy. Scared of a stupid coyote.”

  “It’s not, I tell you!” Earl held his ground. The short hairs at the nape of his neck prickled as he scoured the arid tract behind them. He had the oddest feeling that unseen eyes were on them.

  “What else could it be?” Koch asked, his tone so sarcastic it could have been cut with a knife. “Apaches? None of the tame ones would dare bother us. As for the renegades, Cpl. Baird told us that recent reports have them south of the border, raiding in Mexico.”

  “Maybe those reports were wrong,” Earl insisted. An idea hit him, and he snapped his fingers. “I know! It could be old Sieber and the Apache scouts! They came back earlier than we expected and the colonel sent them to bring us in.”

  Koch rolled his eyes skyward. He never had thought highly of Fetterman and had only agreed to count him in because Stillwell liked him. “How many times do I have to tell you? I had Orderly Duty yesterday. I know for a fact that every last scout is down in the Dragoons. Sieber and those red devils who work with him were sent to help catch a pair of bucks who skipped from San Carlos.” Koch shook his head. “The scouts won’t be back at Fort Bowie for a week or so yet. So quit getting in a huff over every little sound, Bean Boy.”

  Earl held his tongue as the other two rode out. He followed, sulking. All Koch ever did was treat him as if he was ten years old, and he had grown to resent it highly. In his opinion, Jim Koch was no better than he was. Both of them had been as green as grass, as Sieber would say, when they were sent to that godforsaken country.

  It made Earl happy to be leaving Arizona Territory for good. The idea that any sane soul would want to live there stunned him. Not when so many places were so much nicer. Massachusetts, for instance, did not have a climate that roasted a man as if he were in an oven in the summer and froze him as if he were encased in solid ice in the winter. Massachusetts had four seasons, not just two.

  There was plenty of water in Earl’s home state, as well. A man did not have to worry about dying of thirst every time he strayed into the wilderness. Nor did a man have to worry about gila monsters, scorpions or sidewinders.

  All in all, Earl Fetterman considered Arizona the single most hostile environment on the face of the planet. It was small wonder the Apaches were as hard as they were, he reflected. Hard land bred hard men. Earl had promised himself that he would never set foot there again for as long as he lived.

  The next moment Earl’s train of thought was derailed by a low growl behind him. Shocked, he turned, his right hand falling to the butt of his pistol. That he had only practiced with it a half-dozen times and could not hit the broad side of a barracks at twenty paces did not seem to bother him. He started to draw but stopped when he saw no hint of movement anywhere. Yet he was certain that he had heard an animal.
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  From then on, Earl rode twisted in the saddle so he could keep an eye on what was in front of them and what lay to their rear. Tense minutes dragged by.

  Without warning, a vague figure dashed between two high boulders, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

  Earl let out with a squawk and reined up. He drew his revolver, his thumb resting on the hammer. His companions joined him, and Koch was none too pleased.

  “What the hell is it this time, Bean Boy? Haven’t you tried our patience enough? Are you going to act like this all the way to Denver?”

  Keeping his voice as calm as he could, Earl said, “I saw someone.”

  “You saw nothing!” Koch challenged. “You’re a simpleton who is letting his imagination get the better of him!”

  Private Bill Stillwill coughed. “Now hold on, Jim. There is no need for you to fly off the handle. Earl is a good man or we wouldn’t have brought him along. If he says he saw something, then by God he must have seen something.”

  “Not something,” Earl corrected, “someone. Were being stalked, I tell you.”

  Koch sneered and muttered, “Here we go again.”

  Scowling at the New Yorker, Stillwell nudged his horse past theirs and rose in the stirrups to study the tableland they were traversing. “I don’t see a thing, Earl. Is Jim right? Could you have been mistaken?”

  As if in answer there came a sharp whistling sound and then a loud thump as a fist might make striking human flesh. Neither Earl nor Koch knew the cause and glanced at once another in confusion.

  “Bill?” Earl asked Stillwell. “Did you hear that strange noise?”

  The trooper from Florida shifted around as if to answer but no words came out of his gaping mouth. What did come out was a pathetic sort of whine which tapered in a gurgled grunt of utter torment and amazement all rolled into one. His right hand lifted as if to salute but stopped short at his chest where the feathered end of a long shaft jutted out. Blood spurted from the corners of his mouth and out his nose. He attempted to raise his hand higher, to the heart-shaped gold locket around his neck, but the effort sapped what little life he had left and his whole body seemed to melt inward on itself, then oozed to the ground in a miserable disjointed heap.