White Apache 8

by David Robbins

  Bessy ambled inside and on down the aisle. The cook strode only a few steps behind her, grinning.

  From out of the darkness swooped Clay Taggart. His arms swept up. The cookie caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and pivoted, bringing his own rifle to bear. Clay struck first, smashing the stock of the Winchester into the cook’s temple. A second blow was not needed. The cook dropped in his tracks like a poled ox.

  White Apache stepped back and regarded the unconscious man a moment. It was fortunate, he mused, that none of the other members of the band had been there. Fiero, especially, would mock him for being so weak. An Apache never spared an enemy when there was no need.

  Bessy had stopped to look around in dull confusion. Clay gave her a healthy swat on the backside and she took off toward her stall as if her tail were on fire. He moved to the double doors. A quick check verified no one else had appeared so he dashed to the corral and scaled the rails.

  The bull’s head was heavy. Instead of lifting it, Clay took hold of a horn with one hand so his other hand would be free to use a gun, and dragged the grisly trophy to the gate. Once he had the gate open, he continued dragging the head out of the corral and on across the neatly tended yard which separated the stable from the house.

  The head left a gory smear in its wake. Clay deliberately dragged it through a flower garden and then up a tidy walk to the front porch. To his right sat a bench flanked by a trellis. To his left, a settle draped with flowery vines the likes of which he had never seen before. They were as much out of place in Arizona as swamp grass would be. He knew that Lilly must have had the plants sent from somewhere back in the States, which made them precious to her. Out of sheer spite he went over and cut every last vine to shreds.

  Most men would have been satisfied at that point. They would have left the bulls head on the bench or the settle or in front of the door. But not Clay Taggart. He wanted to strike the fear of God into Miles Gillett, and to do that, he had to take a gamble most men would label insane.

  Clay tried the screen door. It was unlocked. Nor was the inner door barred. Which was not at all unusual out in the country, where folks tended to trust one another—and in Providence. Doors were rarely locked. In fact, the man who took up the practice was often viewed with suspicion. What was wrong with him, the common sentiment went, that he saw fit to shut out his own neighbors?

  The Winchester, Clay left propped against the jamb. He braced the screen door wide with a foot, then hauled the head inside and set it on the polished floorboards in the hall. Grinning in sadistic glee, he dragged it past several rooms to the foot of a staircase.

  The house was as still as a tomb. It was so quiet that Clay could hear the raspy growl of someone sawing logs upstairs. Gripping both horns, he toted his prize to the landing and there paused to get his bearings.

  There were two doors on the right, one on the left. Clay crept to the latter and peeked within. When he set eyes on the pair in the canopy bed, he gave a start, even though he expected them to be there. His pulse quickened and the room seemed to spin before him, so intense were his emotions. It took every ounce of self-control he had to keep him from drawing his six-shooter and finishing the pair off then and there.

  Asleep in the bed were Miles and Lilly Gillett. The rancher was on his wide back, a forearm draped over his brow. Lilly lay curled on her right side, her lower lip fluttering as she breathed.

  Clay’s memory was jolted by her beauty. Inwardly he traveled back to the days before his life fell apart, to the time before Lilly had been forced to wed Gillett to save her father’s ranch, to the days when the two of them were together all the time and talking seriously of marriage and the family they would have.

  A thrill tingled Clay’s spine. It was as if he had stripped off the years, and there he was, running hand-in-hand across a sunny meadow with Lilly at his side. Her long hair flew in the wind as she laughed in gay abandon and turned eyes filled with love on him. They halted under the limbs of a willow on the bank of a gleaming river and kissed as they had kissed hundreds of time before. The lush feel of her ripe body, her warmth, the musky scent of her perfume, all combined to make Clay’s head swim.

  Lilly had always had that effect on him. She had been the one great love of his life and she had thrown that love up in his face. There were times when merely thinking about it was enough to make Clay want to scream.

  This was one of those times. Clay clenched his fists and grit his teeth and allowed the feeling to pass before he went on about the chore he had set for himself.

  Miles Gillett appeared to be out to the world. Which struck Clay as odd, given the comments he had overheard on the ridge. The cowboy named Carter had claimed that Gillett was having trouble sleeping nights, and waking up at the drop of a feather. Yet there the man snored.

  Then Clay spotted the bottle on the nightstand beside the bed. His moccasins made no noise on the plush rug as he walked over and lifted it to the window. The scrawl was hard to read but he recognized it as the handwriting of old Doc Sawyer in Tucson. The sawbones had prescribed the concoction for stomach trouble and bad nerves.

  So.

  The stories were true.

  White Apache’s eyes lit with sadistic glee as he stealthily went back around to the hallway and brought the head inside. He froze when Lilly shifted and muttered under her breath. She smacked her red lips a few times, curled up on her other side, and was sleeping peacefully in moments.

  The sheet had slid partially off her. Clay saw her full figure from the waist up. He saw how her bosom strained against her sheer nightgown and the rise and fall of her flat belly as she breathed, and a lump formed in his throat. Swallowing, he went to the landing for the bull’s head and brought it to the foot of the bed.

  Now came the truly difficult part. Even people who were hard to wake up would do so instantly if they felt someone—or something—crawl into bed with them.

  Clay Taggart slowly lowered the head to the quilt. He had to shove both hands up under the folds of the neck to keep it from slipping. Exercising the utmost care, he eased the head down so that the back of it rested on the footboard. The bed barely sagged.

  Miles Gillett abruptly stirred. His arm dropped to his side and he rolled to the left. His eyes seemed to blink once or twice. For a few moments it appeared that he was about to wake up. But once he had rolled over, he subsided, his chin drooping to his chest. He snored louder than ever.

  Ever so slowly, Clay slid his fingers out from under the neck. They were caked with flecks of blood and gore. He looked around. The pink canopy caught his eye. Reaching up, he wiped his hands on the ruffle.

  Clay backed from the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, once again torn by two desires. On the one hand, he yearned to go over to Gillett and slit the bastard from ear to ear. On the other, he wanted to torment his enemy Apache-style, to make Gillett endure living hell before he finally evened the score.

  It was Lilly who decided the issue. She rolled onto her back at that exact moment. The sheet shifted lower still, exposing her exquisite figure down to the knees. Pale starlight bathed her, imbuing her with such stark beauty that it took Clay Taggart’s breath away. It also reminded him of how much he had lost, of how much Miles Gillett had to atone for.

  No, Clay decided. Killing the man would have to wait. There would be another time, another place. As soundless as a specter, he glided to the landing and down to the first floor. The wind whipped his long hair as he stepped onto the porch and retrieved the Winchester.

  White Apache was halfway along the gravel walk when he spied a figure near the stable. The cook had revived much sooner than he had expected and was crawling toward the bunkhouse. Swiftly, White Apache ran over:

  The man was so weak that he could hardly lift an arm. Blood trickled from a nasty gash in his temple, down over his cheek and chin. His head was so low to the ground that he did not realize he was no longer alone until he extended his right hand and his fingers brushed White Apache’s foot. Goin
g rigid, the man glanced up. “Oh, God!” he croaked. “Not you!”

  “Do you know who I am?” Clay asked quietly.

  The sourdough managed to nod.

  “How?”

  “Your eyes.”

  Clay Taggart hunkered down. “There was a cook named Brewster once. He worked for my pa. He took a shine to me and used to make me son-of-a-bitch-in-a-sack every chance he could. If you ever run into him, tell him how obliged you are.”

  “For what?”

  “For your life,” Clay Taggart said, and slammed the stock against the man’s jaw. The cook sagged. This time he would be out for quite a while.

  Rising, Clay walked into the stable and selected the finest horse there, a roan stallion. It behaved itself as he led it out onto the plain, swung up bare-back, and applied his heels. In moments the night closed around him, and he chuckled, quite pleased with himself.

  Little did White Apache know that the last laugh was not to be his.

  Four

  Colonel Thomas Reynolds rode around a bend in the Tuscon-Mesilla road. Ahead on a hill to the west reared the stone ramparts of Fort Bowie. The officer smiled. He looked forward to getting back to the post. First, he would treat himself to a glass of excellent brandy. Then he would have the orderly fill his tub with hot water so he could soak for an hour. It was the very least he deserved, he told himself, after putting up with the heat and the dust and the Chiricahuas.

  Colonel Reynolds glanced over his right shoulder at the detachment of Fifth Cavalry clattering up the road behind him. A week ago, when they had left the post, every man had been dressed in a clean, crisp uniform, and every saddle and bridle had practically shone. Now every trooper, every mount, was covered thick with dust. From head to toe, or from mane to tail, they were all a grimy grey.

  But that was Arizona for you, Reynolds mused. In all his years he had never seen any country so foreboding. And it wasn’t just the heat or the wind or the dust. It was the land itself, a land so harsh that even the creatures it bred and the vegetation it spawned were nightmares in their own right. Spiders the size of a man’s hand. Snakes with fangs that dripped venom. Lizards that would bite down and never let go. Plants with spikes and barbs and thorns.

  Small wonder, Reynolds noted, that the people who called this land home were as hard as the country in which they lived. Never had he met any tribe like the Apaches, and he had served on the Plains for years, dealing often with the Sioux and the Cheyenne and the Arapaho.

  Without being obvious about it, Colonel Reynolds shifted to glance at their Apache scout. Klo-sen was a Mescalero. His name, Reynolds had learned, meant ‘Hair Rope,’ and had something to do with the time he had strangled a Mexican soldado with a rope made of human hair.

  Once Klo-sen had told Reynolds a little about his upbringing. How he had been trained to stay awake for an entire day without feeling the effects. How as a boy he had often been given water to carry in his mouth and told to run five miles or more without swallowing. How by the time he was a young man he could travel the equivalent of seventy miles in a single day, on foot, without tiring. How he had trained with knife and bow and lance and sling and rifle and war club until he could use them all with superior skill.

  What astounded Reynolds the most was the fact that Klo-sen was not unique. To the contrary, the scout was typical of the men of his tribe. Quite average. Which made Reynolds all the more willing to believe the incredible tales of prowess he had heard about warriors who were more than average.

  Such as Delgadito, the Chiricahua. The renegade had been a thorn in the Army’s side since before Colonel Reynolds arrived in the Territory. Striking at will, escaping without a trace, these were Delgadito’s hallmarks. It was rightfully claimed that he had slain more Americans and Mexicans than any Apache alive.

  And now, to make a bad situation much worse, a white traitor had joined forces with the renegade. Together they were spreading terror from one end of Arizona to the other. Clay Taggart, the White Apache, had to be stopped at all costs. That was the order Reynolds had been given. In no uncertain terms it was made clear that if he did not bring the White Apache to bay soon, his career would suffer accordingly.

  So, a week ago, Reynolds had gone to pay Palacio, the chief of the Chiricahuas, another visit. They had smoked and eaten. The wily chief had listened while Reynolds stressed the urgency of the crises. Palacio had promised to do all in his power to help. But Palacio had made promises before, and the White Apache and Delgadito were still at large.

  Now Reynolds was on his way back. In his eyes the trip had been a complete waste. He would never have gone if not for the insistent urging of his superiors. Yet they would blame him when no results were forthcoming.

  The thud of hooves brought an end to the officer s reverie. Capt. Gerald Forester, a tough veteran of the Apache campaign, came alongside and asked the question uppermost on Reynolds’s mind. “So what now, sir?”

  The colonel frowned. “I wish to hell I knew,” he admitted.

  Forester was one of the few subordinates whose judgment he trusted. The rest were either green boys fresh out of the academy or borderline derelicts who could not keep their nose out of a bottle. Tm open to any ideas you might have.”

  Forester wished that he had one. He respected Reynolds, which was more than could be said of some of the superior officers he had served under, and he would like to help. He knew what was at stake. But the colonel had already tried everything there was to try and nothing had worked. The White Apache had more lives than a cat. “I’ll think on it, sir,” was all he could say.

  The road wound up around the hill to the front gate. A sentry in the east guard tower had seen them approaching from a long way off. As a result, the gate was already open and soldiers were lined up on both sides, standing at attention, their carbines held at the Present Arms position.

  At the head of the line stood Lieutenant James Petersen. All spit and polish, he was the newest arrival at Fort Bowie and eager to prove his worth. He gave a properly stiff salute as the detachment reined up. It took an effort for him to keep a grin off his face, so pleased was he with his own performance. He couldn’t wait to share the news.

  Colonel Reynolds had always been an observant man. He could not help but notice that the corners of the young lieutenant s mouth quirked upward several times as he wearily dismounted. Removing a gauntlet, he brushed dust from his sleeve, returned the salute, and said, “At ease, Petersen. I trust all went well while I was gone?”

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  Worry stabbed deep into the colonel. He had left the junior officer in charge against his better judgment. There had been no choice. Of the four captains under his command, two had been out on patrol, one had been in Tucson on official business, and he’d had to take Forester with him to help interpret. “What do you mean, Lieutenant?”

  Petersen reported in his best clipped voice, as he had been taught at the prestigious military academy he attended. “Deserters, sir. Three of them. Privates Earl Fetterman, James Koch, and William Stillwell did not show up for morning roll-call three days ago. I ordered an immediate search of the post. It was determined that three horses and provisions were missing.”

  Reynolds sighed. Desertion was a chronic problem at a number of forts in the Southwest, not just Bowie. The harsh climate, the unforgiving land, the Apaches and Comanches and other hostiles, all made military life a living hell. Some men simply could not take it. “Very well. I’ll send Captain Forester and Klo-sen after them.”

  Petersen beamed proudly. “That won’t be necessary, sir. I’ve already dispatched trackers to hunt them down.”

  “Oh?” Colonel Reynolds said, puzzled. His other scouts were all off in the Dragoons, so far as he knew. “Did Sieber and the others come back sooner than expected?”

  “No, sir,” Lieutenant Petersen said. “I sent the Bowdrie brothers.”

  Colonel Reynolds thought his heart had stopped. For a few moments the world around him spun. He heard
Captain Forester curse and Sergeant. McKinn’s intake of breath. Steadying himself, he somehow was able to keep his voice calm as he said, “The Bowdrie brothers are not on the military payroll, Lieutenant.”

  Petersen knew that something was amiss but he had no idea what. “The Army has hired them in the past. You told me so, yourself. And since they happened to be at the fort when the three troopers skipped, I thought it would be best to temporarily hire their services again.” He paused. “You did tell me that they are three of the best trackers around, didn’t you, sir?”

  Captain Forester wanted to throttle the junior officer. Turning away, he clenched both hands and said to no one in particular, “Dear God. It must already be too late.”

  “Sir?” Lieutenant Petersen said, glancing from the captain to the colonel. “Since no scouts were available and you were gone, I went by the book. Did I do wrong?”

  Reynolds bowed his head. He couldn’t blame the younger man for what had happened. A few weeks ago he had indeed mentioned that the Bowdrie brothers were good trackers, but only in passing. They had been talking about scouts in general, and how few white men could hold their own against the Indians. “I’m, afraid you might have made a grievous mistake, yes.”

  Petersen felt the blood drain from his face. The last thing he wanted was to foul up so soon after arriving there. “May I ask how, sir?”

  It was Captain Forester who answered. Whirling, he said with great emotion, “The Bowdrie boys are killers, Petersen. Sure, they’re about the best at what they do. Sure, they can track a lizard over hard ground. But they only do it for money. And they have a habit of killing whoever they’re sent after.” He paused to rein in his anger. “We’ve used them in the past, but only when no one else was handy. And we always made it a point to send troopers along with them to keep them in line. Did you send anyone this time?”