White Apache 8

by David Robbins

“Better take it easy, sir,” Sergeant Shawn O’Grady cautioned. “You don’t want to open that wound again.”

  The officer glanced at the big Irishman. “All you need to do is sprout feathers and a beak and you would make a fine mother hen, Sergeant.”

  O’Grady grinned. He would be the first to admit that he had been hovering over Benteen like a hawk. But that was what he got paid for. The welfare of every member of the patrol was his foremost priority. Nodding at the bluff, he asked, “Do you reckon the bastard is still up there, sir?”

  “I don’t see how he could have slipped away without us noticing,” Benteen replied. It had been close to six hours since the White Apache had last made his presence known. A private named Wilcox had made the mistake of exposing a leg and Taggart had put a slug into the young man’s ankle. Wilcox would live but he might be crippled for life.

  Benteen shifted to somberly stare at the blanket covered bodies lying forty feet away, near the horses. Two troopers had been killed so far and three wounded, counting himself. But he was not about to give up. Not when he still had twenty-five able-bodied men still at his disposal and they had the terror of the Southwest completely hemmed in.

  Time was on Benteen’s side. The White Apache had no food up there, no water. Soon the renegade would begin to feel the effects of the blistering heat. All Benteen had to do was sit tight and be ready when Clay Taggart made a break for it.

  There was a whisper of movement and suddenly Antonio was next to them, materializing out of the mesquite as if out of thin air. He squatted, his Henry across his legs, as impassive as a statue.

  “Any luck?” Benteen asked. Half an hour ago he had sent the Apache to scour the bluff from top to bottom in the hope that the scout would spot Taggart.

  “No,” Antonio regretted having to report. He had always prided himself on his exceptionally keen eyesight, but it had failed him this time. He had looked and looked and not seen any trace of their quarry. The White Apache, he reflected, was a credit to his name.

  “So what do we do, sir?” Sergeant O’Grady asked. “Wait him out?”

  “Exactly,” Benteen confirmed. Twisting, he probed the chaparral and spotted several members of the patrol. They were strung out at regular intervals, completely circling the bluff. It would be impossible for so much as a jackrabbit to get past them without being spotted.

  Scattered here and there were the charred remains of the huge brush fires Benteen had ordered made the evening before. All night long the troopers had kept the fires going, lighting up the base of the bluff as brightly as day. Benteen had been sure that Taggart would try to slip away but the night had passed quietly. Too quietly. He had begun to worry that perhaps Taggart had already given them the slip. Then Private. Wilcox had been shot.

  Now, staring up at the seamed slope, Benteen wondered what was going through the mind of the White Apache. It was rumored that Taggart had pledged never to be taken alive. Would the man carry out his vow? Would Taggart go out in a blaze of gunfire, or would he weaken and give up?

  One thing was for sure. Benteen was glad that he wasn’t in Clay Taggart’s boots. No matter what the man did, he was as good as dead. If Taggart surrendered, he would be taken back for triad. Public sentiment being what it was, they would hold a public hanging and folks would come from hundreds of miles around to witness the end of the man who had terrorized them for so long. It would be like that time in Colorado Territory when thousands showed up for a hanging and turned the ghastly event into a virtual holiday.

  A hand touched Benteen’s arm. Antonio pointed to the west and said, “Trouble come.”

  The officer looked. All he saw was a solitary cloud low on the horizon. “What kind of trouble?” he inquired.

  “Much rain.”

  Benteen scanned the sky from north to south. “You must be mistaken,” he said, and regretted it when the Jicarilla frowned. “I don’t mean to doubt you, Antonio. But how do you know? What do you see that I don’t?”

  The warrior tapped the tip of his nose with a bronzed finger. “Not see. Smell. Heavy rain come before sun set. Thunder. Lightning.” Antonio bobbed his chin toward the bluff. “Him know, I bet. Him be glad to see rain come.”

  The aged scout was right. White Apache had caught the faint but dank scent of the oncoming storm system sometime ago. He had sat up and peered westward, trying to gauge how long it would be before the downpour hit. But he could not tell.

  A true Chiricahua would know. A full-blooded warrior learned to read the moods of Nature as white men read the printed pages of books. Early on in life a warrior was taught by his elders how to tell the different types of clouds and what each type meant. He was taught to use his nose to a degree white men rarely did. He learned, in effect, to attune his senses to the rhythms of the wild.

  Clay Taggart could do the same, although not nearly as well. To other white men his abilities might seem uncanny. To the Chiricahuas, however, he was somewhat backward, a grown man who handled himself about as well as a fourteen or fifteen-year old Apache might.

  Clay knew his limits and he did not try to exceed them. He did constantly work at improving himself, at becoming better at the many skills at which the Chiricahuas excelled. One day he would be their equal, or as close to being one as any white man had ever been or ever would be.

  Settling back, Clay surveyed the mesquite below. The troopers were well hidden. Not so their horses. Northeast of the bluff several were partly visible, and he made a mental note of the spot for later on.

  To while away the time, Clay checked his .44-40 Winchester to verify he had a full fifteen rounds in the magazine. He also checked his .45-caliber single-action Colt. Both guns took the new metallic center-fire cartridges which were a distinct improvement over the older linen and paper cartridges and the flimsy rim-fires.

  A while back there had been talk in Tucson that at some point down the road the Colt company planned to put out a pistol which could take the same cartridge as the Winchester rifle. Most frontiersmen could hardly wait. It would mean a great savings in weight and money to be able to use the same ammunition in both. Instead of having to tote two cartridge belts, a man would only need one.

  Clay also took out his Bowie and wiped the blade clean of dust on his breechcloth. Next he hiked his moccasins to his knees and looped strands of rawhide around the tops to hold them in place. He was now as ready as he would ever be.

  A loud rumble came from Clay’s stomach. He ignored it, even though he was hungry enough to eat horse meat raw. He also ignored his parched throat. Taking a pebble off the ground, he stuck it under his tongue. The pebble would make his mouth water and keep it moist, yet another trick he had learned from the Chiricahuas. It would have to suffice until he found some water.

  The day dragged on. More and more clouds appeared. The scent of rain grew steadily stronger. Clay wondered if the cavalrymen knew they were in for a gully-washer, and if they would take steps to keep him from slipping off when the thunderstorm hit. He saw no evidence of movement and figured they had no idea.

  But he was wrong. Captain Benteen no longer had any doubts about Antonio’s prediction. Motioning for O’Grady to come closer, he gave new orders.

  “Make the rounds of the men. Tell them to expect Taggart to try to escape during the height of the storm. Advise them to be ready to move out at my signal.”

  “Sir?”

  “The rain will work in our favor as well as his. He won’t be able to pick us off if he can’t see us. Once the rain is heavy enough, we can work our way right up to the bottom of the bluff without him being any the wiser.” Benteen patted his pistol. “I’ll fire a shot into the air. That will be the signal for the men to advance and surround the bluff at close range. If we’re practically rubbing elbows, there’s no way in hell Taggart will be able to sneak past us.”

  The sergeant grinned. “An excellent plan, sir, if I do say so myself.” Staying bent at the waist, he hastened off to do as he had been told.

  Again a han
d brushed the officer’s wrist.

  “Where you want me?” Antonio asked.

  “You’re free to do as you want,” Benteen said. According to regulations, a scout was sent with every patrol to do just that. When it came to actual fighting, the Army preferred for regular troops to engage the enemy. Many officers would have it no other way. While they trusted the scouts to hunt the rogues down, most officers secretly harbored grave doubts that the scouts would wholeheartedly take to slaying fellow Apaches.

  The Jicarilla nodded, then melted into the underbrush. He knew where he could do them the most good. The captain had not thought of everything.

  Up on the bluff, Clay Taggart spied movement and brought the Winchester to bear. No sooner had he fixed a bead on a shadowy figure in blue than the figure blended into the chaparral. He kept the rifle pressed to his shoulder, thinking that the trooper might soon reappear. But minutes went by and no one showed.

  Meanwhile, clouds continued to gather to the west. Within the hour a dark bank of them roiled over a full third of the sky. It would not be long before they swooped down over the bluff.

  White Apache inched to the lip of the cleft to study the slope below. Once the downpour began, he would not be able to see more than a few feet in front of him. He needed to memorize the location of any and all obstacles he would encounter on the way down so he could avoid them.

  There was a crevice ten feet lower. Below that, boulders littered a wide area. Further down, cracks and ruts and a tangle of weeds would slow him down.

  The wind grew steadily stronger. Soon it whipped off the slope in mighty gusts, whirling tendrils of dust into the air and bending the weeds as if they were so much straw. The mesquite shook to the blasts of chill air, rustling noisily.

  More and more dark clouds flashed eastward. Far to the west thunder rumbled. Occasionally, Clay glimpsed ragged bolts of lightning in the distance. The scent of rain was now so strong that it made his craving for water twice as intense as before. He smacked his dry lips, eager for the first drops to fall.

  Another half an hour went by. Finally it happened. Clay heard a soft plop to his left, another to his right. Something moist and cold struck him on the right shoulder. He turned his head. A tiny drop rested on his skin. Touching the tip of a finger to it, he licked the water off, then smiled.

  Drops fell with greater frequency. Mixed with them were small hailstones which pummeled the mesquite like buckshot. The rattle of the stones was like the grating of gravel on tin.

  Shrieking like a banshee, the wind grew even worse. Clay’s body broke out in goosebumps. He shivered. Moving to the right, he pressed close to a break in the cleft just wide enough for him to slip through. It would not be long now, he told himself. Nature was coming to his rescue.

  Thunder rumbled ever louder. Increasing numbers of vivid bolts ruptured the sky. One struck less than a quarter-of-a-mile off with a bright flash and a crackle that pricked the short hairs at the nape of Clay’s neck. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth wide as the rain commenced coming down in earnest.

  Seldom had any water tasted so delicious as that which Clay gulped down. It was just enough to quench his thirst but not enough to satisfy his craving. Soon the rain fell in sheets. He was soaked from head to toe, but he hardly cared.

  Clay peeked around the break. The base of the bluff was completely shrouded by the deluge. He could descend with impunity. Slipping onto the slope, he carefully worked his way downward. So heavy was the downpour that already the slope had become like glass. One misstep and he would pay the consequences.

  When Clay suspected that he was close to the crevice, he sank onto his hands and knees and crawled forward. His left hand poked into thin air. Drawing back, he roved his finger along the edge, getting his bearings. As he recollected, the crevice was about four-feet wide. Under normal conditions he could leap it with ease.

  Kneeling at the rim, Clay slowly rose. The rain had become a liquid wall. He could barely see his hand when he held it six-inches from his face. And the other side of the crevice was a blur. Girding himself, he coiled his legs, took a breath, and jumped. For a harrowing second he hung suspended in the air. Suddenly the ground rushed up to meet him. He landed firmly on both feet but the slippery slope proved more treacherous than he had counted on. His legs swept out from under him. The next thing he knew, he was hurtling down the bluff, out of control and unable to stop.

  Clay thought of the boulders ahead and tensed. If he should smash into them going that fast, he’d break half the bones in his body. He threw out his free hand and clutched at the ground but it was like clutching at a sheet of cold grease. He could find no purchase. His momentum built. Everything around him became a confused jumble of streaking images.

  In desperation Clay slammed both heels hard into the ground and laid flat on his back. He jammed both elbows into the earth. A cry was almost torn from his lips as skin was ripped from the back of his arms and upper thighs. In front of him loomed a boulder. He hurtled to one side and careened off it, suffering a jarring blow which snapped his teeth together. The collision also helped to slow him down.

  Another boulder appeared. Clay lunged as he shot close by it and caught hold with his left arm. The jolt of stopping about wrenched the arm from its socket. He clung on to catch his breath and allow the pain to subside.

  Lightning pierced the murky veil overhead. The very next instant thunder seemed to vibrate the ground. The rain was a solid mass which beat at Clay s head and shoulders. And on top of all that, the wind roared without cease, pushing against him as might an invisible hand.

  White Apache let go of the boulder. Rising into a crouch, he advanced, alert for others. Each step was a study in caution. He tested his footing before bearing down with his whole weight. In spots the earth had been transformed into slick mud. It clung to his soles, making the descent that much more dangerous.

  For an eternity this went on. The boulders fell behind him and he came to a tract of rough ground. Ruts and cracks worn by erosion threatened to trip him. He had to stoop to see the ground and even then he could not see it clearly.

  It seemed as if lightning rent the heavens every two or three seconds. Every bolt lit up the countryside, some brightly, others faintly. The thunder was continuous, some blasts close at hand, others farther off.

  White Apache could barely hear himself think, let alone hear anything else. He nearly slipped in a rut and was able to stay on his feet only by falling into a crouch and using his left hand to support himself. It was hard to say for sure but he believed that he was close to the bottom. He looked around, seeking a particular cluster of weeds he had noticed before the storm Began. Finding it would take a miracle.

  The rain had flattened every weed and small bush in sight.

  Suddenly another crackling bolt cleaved the firmament. In its brilliant but fleeting glare, White Apache was taken aback to spy a pair of troopers at the very limits of his vision. They were crouched on flat ground, their carbines tucked to their shoulders.

  The glare died as quickly as it had flared. White Apache did not know whether they had spotted him, and he wasn’t going to stay there to find out. Gliding to the right a score of feet, he hunched low to the ground and awaited the next close strike. He did not have to wait long. The bolt lit up everything around for a good fifty feet. And there, less than half that distance away, were two more soldiers.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the troopers had moved in close to the bluff to keep him from slipping through their lines.

  White Apache sank onto his belly and wormed his way further to the right. If he recollected correctly, there was a narrow wash on the east side of the bluff. A minute of hard crawling brought him to a low spine. Looping an arm over the top to pull himself up and over, he felt it sink into rushing water up to his wrist.

  White Apache wriggled to the top and discovered the wash. Only where before it had been dry to the bone, now it held a torrent of runoff. He guessed it to be over
two feet deep in the middle.

  It gave White Apache an idea. He wedged the Colt into his holster, held the rifle aloft, and snaked down into the wash. Immediately the water enveloped him. A clammy sensation bathed his skin from the neck down. He barely had time to turn in the direction of the flow when he was hurtled along as if shot from a cannon.

  In a twinkling White Apache was ten feet from where he had just been. He glimpsed the bottom sweeping toward him and spotted a pair of blue figures huddled to one side. Taking a breath, he ducked his head under. The next moment he flashed past them and they were none the wiser.

  Jerking his head up, White Apache gulped in air. A grim smile touched his lips. He had done it! He had escaped the trap! Now all he had to do was survive the flash flood. He tried to veer to the right but the water resisted him. He flailed at the side but could not gain a handhold. When he attempted to dig his knees into the bottom to arrest his speed, he was nearly upended by the violent current.

  Then the water swept around a bend. White Apache did not see it until too late. He flung out his left hand just as he hit. Somehow his arm acted as a lever and he was half-flipped, half-pushed, high up against the side. By sheer chance he found footing for his right leg and shoved off with all his strength. Like an ungainly bird, he flew over the top and sprawled onto his stomach in mud two-inches deep.

  Swiftly White Apache shoved to his feet and lurched toward the nearest cover, which happened to be a wall of mesquite. Ducking under a limb, he squatted and took stock. The Colt was still in its holster and the Bowie was in its sheath. Both were splattered with mud, nothing a thorough cleaning couldn’t take care of.

  It would have been nice for him to be able to rest for even a short while, but White Apache knew better than to stay in one spot for very long. Once the storm ended, the cavalrymen would search the bluff from bottom to top. When they learned he wasn’t there, they would fan out and search for him. He had to be long gone by then.

  Weaving through the mesquite to an open space, White Apache faced in what he hoped was due east and broke into a shuffling run. Five strides later he halted, riveted by the sight of tethered horses off to the right. He had completely forgotten about the string in his haste to get away.