“Sweet Jesus!” Koch breathed.
From the top of a flat boulder a dozen yards away wafted a high cackle. “Hell, boy! The Good Lord had nothin’ to do with it. You done brought this on yourselves. With the scouts gone, that Yankee, Petersen, had to send us to fetch you. And we don’t fetch but one way. Over a saddle.”
Private Koch glanced up and wet himself. He had been posted at Bowie longer than the other two. He knew the identity of the buckskin clad scarecrow on the boulder and knew they were as good as dead. But knowing that fact did not stop him from doing something about it.
James Koch had a number of traits which annoyed his fellow soldiers no end. But not one of those who knew him had ever seen fit to brand him a coward. Even Koch’s desertion did not stem from cowardice. He was giving up Army life because he hated having others tell him what to do all the time. It was as simple as that. He would never have joined in the first place if a certain New York judge had given him any choice.
Now, wheeling his horse, Koch knew that his choices in life had narrowed to two; live or die. He took off like the proverbial bat out of hell. He swept past Fetterman and flashed across a clearing toward more boulders. If he reached them, if he put them at his back to ward off arrows and bullets, he felt he might have a chance.
Then another buckskin clad form seemed to rise up out of nowhere in front of him. Too late, Koch saw the peculiar raccoon cap and the short blonde hair and knew that he had blundered into the worst of the bunch. In sheer desperation he went for his pistol. But compared to the killer, his movements were the speed of petrified molasses.
The apparition in the coonskin cap leveled an old Sharps and fired. The .52 caliber breechloader was powerful enough to drop a charging bull buffalo at that range. Private William Koch was lifted clear out of the saddle by the impact and flung over a dozen feet to crash onto his side on the rocks.
Earl Fetterman felt his stomach chum. He sat there paralyzed, unable to move even though his mind shrieked at him to ride as he had never ridden before. “Oh, God,” he said bleakly as the tall, skinny man on the boulder and the shorter one with the big rifle ambled toward him.
A new voice intruded. Into view stepped a beefy specimen in greasy buckskins who wore enough hardware to sink a boat. The man had a bushy brown beard and bushy brows which hid half his face. His laugh was like the sound made by a saw on a log. “What the hell is it with these city boys, Clell? They sure do call on the Almighty a powerful lot.”
The scarecrow stepped to the edge of the boulder and propped his skinny hands on his equally skinny hips. “They ain’t got no respect, little brother. They figure that since they can’t make do, the Almighty should bail ’em out every time they get in over their heads.”
“Downright pitiful,” declared the beefy specimen. He jabbed a thick thumb at Earl Fetterman. “What do you want me to do with this one? All he’s doin’ is sittin’ there and quakin’ like a leaf. It wouldn’t hardly be sportin’ to knock a puny sissy like him over the head.”
Earl knew that he was being insulted again but this time he didn’t care. He kept thinking that if he sat there and did nothing, maybe they would just go away and leave him alone.
The man named Clell sighed. “If he’s that bad, let Razor do the chore. We don’t give that critter enough to do for him to earn his keep as it is.”
Private Fetterman felt his insides freeze solid. The word RAZOR reverberated in his head like the peal of a bell during a funeral procession. He barely heard the beefy man shout the name, but he did see the massive gray streak of rippling sinews which flowed over the ground toward him. He saw the hairy form spring, saw its enormous mouth spring wide. Earl even saw wicked rows of gleaming, serrated teeth just before steely jaws clamped on his throat, and he knew that the creature had been aptly named.
Then someone was screaming and blubbering, forever and ever.
Two
The most wanted man in all of Arizona had not moved a muscle in over an hour.
From a low ridge which overlooked the ranch house belonging to the man Clay Taggart hated more than any other, he patiently spied on his avowed enemy.
If anyone had happened by and spotted Taggart on that ridge, they would have sworn he was an Apache. With good reason. Taggart’s black hair was as long as an Apache’s and held in place around his brow by a dusty white headband. He wore a breechcloth, as would an Apache, and knee-high moccasins, the style favored by that tribe. His skin had been bronzed dark by the sun, as dark as that of the Apaches themselves. To complete the picture he presented, on his left hip he wore a Bowie, on his right a nickel-plated Colt, while slung over his chest was a bandoleer crammed with cartridges for the Winchester cradled in his left elbow.
From a distance, Clay Taggart appeared every inch an Indian.
Anyone who saw him up close, though, would immediately know the truth. For up close they would see that Taggart’s eyes were a clear lake-blue, unlike those of any Apache who ever lived. Up close they would also see that his features were sharper than those of most Apaches, that his nose was not as wide, his cheeks were not as broad, his forehead not quite as high. These were small differences, to be sure, but they were enough to conclusively prove that Clay Taggart was not an Indian.
And yet, sometimes physical features do not tell the whole story. Sometimes, features lie. A person’s true nature is always buried deep within them, not on the surface of their skin.
So it was with Clay Taggart, the White Apache. In his mind and in his heart he viewed himself as a Chiricahua, as a brother to the renegades who had saved his life and befriended him. To Clay Taggart’s way of thinking, he was every inch an Apache. He had thrown in his lot with them and he would live and die as they lived and died.
Nothing anyone could say or do would ever convince Taggart otherwise. He was a new man. He had been reborn the day a lynch party left him dangling at the end of a rope and Delgadito the renegade had him cut down before the noose had strangled the life from him.
In keeping with his new life, Taggart had a new name. It had been given to him by Delgadito. Lick-oyee-shis-inday, the Apaches called him. It meant White-Man-Of-The-Woods, and stemmed from the fact that the Apache name for their own tribe was Shis-Inday, or Men-Of-The-Woods. Few knew this.
Few were aware that ‘Apache’ was the name another tribe had given them.
It fit, though. For in the language of the other tribe, ‘Apache’ meant enemy, and the Shis-Inday regarded anyone not of their tribe as exactly that. It had always been so. It always would.
The Apache creed was simple, and taught to every boy before he was big enough to bend his first bow. Apache warriors must be masters at killing without being killed, and at stealing without being caught.
Delgadito and the other members of the renegade band had taught Clay Taggart much. He could now survive off the land just as they did. He could go for days with little water and less food. When he had to, he could blend into the background so as to be invisible. He could stalk quarry as silently as a mountain lion, strike as swiftly as a scorpion.
These were all skills Clay intended to fully use. Burning in his breast was a rage so fiery, a hatred so strong, that when he thought of it, his body would shake as if he were having a fit and his face would flush the color of blood.
Clay Taggart craved revenge on those who had wronged him. He lived, breathed and ate revenge. It was always at the back of his mind, even when he did other things, even when he appeared to concentrate on something else. Revenge! Sweet, vicious revenge against those who had lynched him and the man who had put them up to it, Miles Gillett.
Thanks to Gillett, Clay Taggart was now an outlaw. No, worse than an outlaw. He had been branded a traitor by the Army and the law alike. Every white person in the Territory was out for his blood. He’d be gunned down on sight, no questions asked.
The White Apache, they called him. Turncoat. Butcher. The vilest man who ever wore britches. If captured, he would be duly tried and then duly exe
cuted, either by firing squad if the U.S. Army got its hands on him or by having his neck stretched if the marshal of Tucson did the job.
Let them try! Taggart thought to himself as he peered at the cluster of buildings a quarter of a mile below. They would not take him alive. Of that he was sure. With his dying breath he would fight for his freedom. With his last ounce of strength he would resist those who had unjustly made an outcast of him.
Movement down at the ranch drew the White Apache’s interest. A pair of figures had emerged from the grand house and were crossing to the stable and corral. The distance was too great for him to see their faces. But he did not need to see them to know that the mammoth slab of a man was Miles Gillett and the shapely woman with dark hair was Gillett’s wife, Lilly.
The richest man in Arizona walked to the corral. The woman Clay had once loved more than life itself walked at Gillett’s side, her slender arm linked in his huge one.
The White Apache quivered as if cold even though the blazing sun blistered the ground around him. It had been weeks since he last saw Lilly. Being this close, being reminded of the love they had once shared, was almost more than he could bear. And when he recollected how she had spurned him for Gillett, it set his innards to aching something terrible.
In the corral, the object of the Gilletts’ interest had lifted its gigantic head to stare at the pair. It lumbered a few steps nearer and tossed its head but did not try to attack as a longhorn would have done.
The story had proven to be true. When Clay first heard it, a day and a half ago, he’d had no way of knowing if it were fact or fiction. Folks, after all, did love to gossip, and half the time they didn’t get their gossip straight.
At the time, Clay had been buried under several inches of loose dirt less than ten strides from a small spring. It was a favorite stop along the Tucson-Mesilla road. Practically everyone rested there, either coming or going. By secreting himself nearby, he often overheard information he could use.
That particular afternoon an old wagon had creaked up to the spring and two muleskinners had hopped down to water their team. They were savvy, those two; one kept watch with a cocked Henry while the other did the work. At first they had jabbered on about trifles; the hot weather, the pay they would receive for hauling their load of freight, and the latest rumors of Indian trouble. Then Clay’s ears had perked up.
“Hey, did you hear tell about that uppity son of a bitch, Gillett?” asked the bearded hulk tending the mules.
The man holding the rifle had not acted very interested. “Who?”
“That rich rancher over to Tucson way. You remember, Ben. We hauled for him a few times. Once it was those fancy china dishes for his cow bunny. He about had a fit when she opened a crate and found one of the saucers had a tiny little crack. He took it out of our pay.”
Ben had frowned. “Oh. Him. The bastard who thinks he’s the Almighty’s gift to the rest of us. Yeah, I remember that curly wolf, Zeke. So what?”
“So the word is that he’s gone and bought himself a big old bull from Texas to improve his herd.” Ben had stifled a yawn. “If you’ve seen one bull, you’ve seem ’em all.”
“Oh?” Zeke had snickered. “Ever seen one worth twenty-thousand dollars before?”
The other muleskinner had tried to swallow his navel with his lower jaw. “You’re joshin’. There ain’t a critter been born worth that amount of money. Why, it’s five times as much as most people make in a whole year!”
“Be that as it may,” Zeke had said, “I have it straight from a gent who was there when they brung the animal into Tucson. He said that Gillett was goin’ on and on about how much it cost, struttin’ around like he always does.”
“The damned rooster.”
“Yep. Anyway, the story is that Gillett bought it from a jasper over to El Paso way who bought it from some high muck-a-muck over to Europe, or some such. Gillett figures to breed him a passel of cows, and every one will be worth its weight in gold.”
Ben shook his head in disgust. “Strange, ain’t it? How them that have a lot keep on gettin’ more while we that don’t have much wind up with less and less. Sort of makes a body suspect they plan it that way.”
“Aw, you cantankerous old coot. You’re just jealous because Miles Gillett is better lookin’ than you are.”
“If I had his money, I could look pretty too.”
It had been hard for Clay Taggart to stay put for the twenty minutes the muleskinners took to finish and mosey on. Rising up out of the shallow depression, he had quickly filled it back in and jogged westward. He’d had to find out for himself.
And now Clay knew the story was true. He shifted to relieve a slight cramp in his left leg, then squinted up at the sun to gauge how long it would be until nightfall. Too long, unfortunately. It was still shy of noon.
But the White Apache was not about to leave. He was not about to pass up any chance to make Gillett pay for the nightmare ordeal he had been through.
Once, Clay had wanted to kill Gillett outright. Many an hour he had idled away dreaming of throttling Gillett with his bare hands or of pumping slug after slug into the rancher’s twitching body.
Then one day it had occurred to Clay that killing Gillett outright was the wrong revenge to take. It was too easy on Gillett. The man would die and that would be the end of it. Gillett might experience a few fleeting moments of fear and some pain, but nowhere near enough to suit Clay.
Gillett had to feel the raw agony Clay had felt when the noose tightened on his throat. Gillett had to experience the supreme torment Clay had felt when he learned that the woman he adored had given herself to the man who had stolen his ranch out from under him.
Miles Gillett had to suffer as Clay had suffered, only worse. Much, much worse. Clay wanted Gillett to suffer as no human being had ever suffered in the entire history of the world.
To that end, Clay was going to chip away at the wealthy rancher. He was going to whittle Gillett down to the size of the slug Gillett resembled. Then, and only then, would he kill the man bit by bit by bit.
The notion brought a rare smile to Clays weathered face. He was so caught up by the idea that for all of thirty seconds he daydreamed instead of staying fully alert as he should have. And so it was that he did not hear the clomp of approaching horses until they were almost on him.
The White Apache had picked his hiding place well. He lay on his belly among a half-dozen boulders only four yards below the rim. No one at the ranch could see him, unless through a spyglass.
But punchers drifting toward the bunkhouse were another matter. Twisting his head just enough to see the riders, White Apache stiffened. Four cowboys had crested the rise. The foremost was only ten feet away. All four wore six-shooters and carried rifles in saddle scabbards.
The White Apache knew that if he so much as sneezed, they would hear and tear into him with a vengeance. All of Gillett’s hands were notorious for being loyal to the brand.
Watching out of the corner of his eye, Taggart was dismayed to see the leader rein up and the rest follow suit. The first puncher hooked a leg around his saddle horn, pulled out the makings, and set to rolling a smoke.
“Do we have time for this?” asked a stocky cowboy.
“It doesn’t take all that long to light a cigarette,” replied the man with the makings. He had a slow drawl which hinted at a Southern upbringing.
“Tell that to the boss, Vasco. He doesn’t take kindly to shirkers. If you’d been with the Triangle G as long as the rest of us, you’d know better than to push your luck by bucking him. Miles Gillett is not an hombre to take lightly.”
The man called Vasco chuckled. He was lanky and limber and had the air of a hawk about him. “I never take anyone lightly, Williams. But after working hard all morning, I figure I deserve a smoke. If our boss holds it against me, all he has to do is give the word and I’ll light a shuck. It makes no difference to me.”
Williams bristled. “That’s your problem right there, mister. You don
’t give a damn about anything or anyone except yourself. I saw that about you right away.”
Vasco casually shifted, lowered his right hand to his waist, and hooked his thumb in his belt. His hand was now inches from a pearl-handled Colt worn butt forward on his left hip for a cross draw. When he spoke, the twang in his voice was replaced by an edge as hard as granite. “If I didn’t know better, friend, I’d swear you just insulted me.”
The White Apache saw the other men tense up. Williams made it a point not to move his arms and mustered a fake smile.
“I’m not loco, Vasco. I was just making a point, is all. Most of us who work for Mr. Gillett think he’s the greatest ramrod this side of the Divide. We’d shine his boots if he asked. So naturally we’d never do anything that he wouldn’t approve of.”
Vasco nodded but kept his hand where it was. “That’s the difference between you and me, Williams. I shine no man’s boots. Ever.” He finished making his cigarette and rolled it between his lips as if savoring the feel. Producing a match, he lit the tip with a flourish, then flicked the match aside. It sailed in a wide arc and hit a boulder near Clay Taggart.
The other three cowboys sat there as Vasco lifted his reins and trotted down the ridge. If looks could kill, he would have been a dead man long before he reached the bottom.
Williams cursed softly. “That cat-eyed leather slapper! I don’t know where he gets off acting so high and mighty around the rest of us.”
“His fancy lead chucker gives him the right,” commented another. “A man with his rep can do as he damn well pleases. They say he’s gunned down seven men so far.”
This did not sit well with Williams, who cursed more and added, “I don’t see why the boss keeps hiring no-accounts like him. There are more than enough hands to get the work done around here.”
White Apache 8 Page 2
