White Apache 8

by David Robbins

  Slinking from cover to cover, White Apache moved toward them. It seemed unlikely that the officer in charge had neglected to post guards, yet he saw none. At the last bush he paused to be doubly certain.

  The drenched mounts stood close to one another, their heads hung low, some of them quaking with every flash of light. They looked utterly miserable.

  Not one lifted its head when White Apache darted over to them and went to untie a black gelding. He would never know what made him glance around. He just did, and saw rushing toward him an Apache warrior dressed in an Army uniform with a carbine held on high to bash him in the head. Instantly he brought up the Winchester to parry the blow. He succeeded, but it was so powerful that he was rocked on his heels and almost lost his grip on the rifle.

  In a blur the scout struck again, aiming the stock at White Apache’s midriff. White Apache pivoted. He was spared the brunt but was still nailed hard enough to rack his ribs with agony. Thrusting with the Winchester as if it were a spear, he drove the barrel into the warrior’s side. The Apache doubled over. A short chop to the base of the skull was all it took to drop the scout where he stood.

  Above the din of the storm a shot rang out. White Apache spotted a big trooper hurrying toward him. Where there was one there were bound to be more, so rather than stand his ground, he wheeled, leaped astride the gelding, tore the reins free, and was off into the chaparral before the onrushing trooper could put a slug into him.

  It was a grand feeling to be alive and racing like the wind with the rain lashing his face! White Apache whooped in triumph as the vegetation closed around him. Nothing could stop him now! he told himself.

  As if in ominous forewarning of events to come, the heavens rocked to the most tremendous eruption of thunder yet.

  Eight

  The Bowdries and the gunman known as Vasco rode due north from Pasqual’s cantina. Until the middle of the afternoon the Tennesseans kept to themselves, riding a dozen yards or so ahead of the man with the pearl-handled Colt.

  Razor trotted along close to Clem, as was the mongrel’s habit. Of the three Bowdries, Razor liked Clem’s company best. At night the animal slept at Clem’s side. During the day the beast’s eyes often lingered on the Bowdrie in the coonskin cap, much as a fawning child will dote on its favorite parent.

  The gunman observed the animal’s affection but did not give it a second thought. Vasco had little interest in anything the Bowdries did. The way he saw things, it was bad enough that his employer had saddled him with the job of being their nursemaid. He just wanted to get the job over with and part company.

  Vasco did not much like working with others. He was a loner, and had been since the terrible war between the North and the South devastated his family and sent him homeless and moneyless off into the world to make ends meet as best he could. Like many a displaced Southerner, he had taken to living by the gun. To survive, he relied on his speed and his wits. And so far they had served him in good stead.

  The sun was high in the sky when Clem Bowdrie abruptly wheeled the mule called Stonewall and rode back to fall into place beside Vasco. The gunman did not hide his annoyance. Pulling his hat brim lower, he said brusquely, “Is there something I can do for you, mister?”

  “I thought we’d talk some,” Clem declared.

  “About what?”

  “You.”

  Vasco glanced sharply at the tracker. “I don’t take kindly to folks who pry.”

  Clem showed those even white teeth. “I’m not fixin’ to poke my nose where it don’t belong. I just figured that since we’ll be ridin’ together a spell, we should at least be a mite friendly.” Clem paused. “I can’t help but notice that accent of yours. You’re from the deep South, just like us. Whereabouts?”

  The gunman had half a mind to tell the tracker that it was none of Bowdrie’s damn business. But the man did have a point. They’d be together for days, maybe weeks. Vasco figured he should at least try to get along—for the time being. “Kentucky.”

  “Oh?” Clem said, sounding inordinately pleased. “Were Tennessee born and bred ourselves. From Possum Hollow. Ever heard of it?”

  “Don’t reckon I ever have, no,” Vasco said. He caught Clell studying them. When Clell realized it, the man quickly looked away as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing. Vasco didn’t know what to make of it.

  “No one ever has,” Clem had gone on with a grin. “Only about thirty folks live there. Them, and six hogs owned by Old Man Anderson. Those critters pretty much have the run of the place.”

  If there was any one subject in which Vasco had no interest whatsoever, it had to be hogs. He made no comment.

  “Me and my brothers outgrowed the place. We decided we wanted to see something of the world, so we lit a shuck for Texas and been wanderin’ ever since. Truth is, though,” Clem stopped and gazed wistfully eastward, “there are times when I get powerful homesick. That ever happen to you?”

  “No.”

  “Not ever?”

  “No.”

  “You never miss the smell of sweet grass covered with mornin’ dew? You never miss the sight of them blue hills shimmerin’ in the haze? You never miss cornbread or dumplin’s or biscuits smothered with sorghum molasses? Or the bayin’ of hounds after a coon?”

  This time when Vasco looked at Bowdrie, it was in amazement. Vivid memories long buried welled up within him. For a few moments he was back in Kentucky, a young boy again, heading home after a day of hunting, a squirrel rifle over his shoulders, a powerful hankering for his ma’s tasty grits quickening his steps. “I suppose I do now and then,” he allowed softly.

  “Ever think of goin’ back?”

  Vasco was sorry he had let the man start flapping his lips. He didn’t enjoy dredging up his past. It hurt too much. “That part of my life is done and over with. I don’t care to talk about it, if you don’t mind. And even if you do.”

  Clem acted startled. “I’m awful sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  For several minutes they went on without speaking. Vasco hoped the man in the baggy buckskins would take the hint and leave him be, but he had no such luck. Out of the blue, Bowdrie made a remark which shocked him.

  “I’ll bet your ma was a true lady. She probably cottoned to fancy dresses, and made you wear shoes even in the summer.”

  “How in the world did you know that?”

  Clem laughed lightly. “I’ll also bet she made sure you never missed a day of schoolin’.”

  Vasco looked at the tracker for the third time, but this time he saw things he had not seen before. Such as the lively, intelligent gleam in the other’s deep blue eyes. And such as the genuine friendliness mirrored by the other’s surprisingly smooth features. “What are you? One of those mind readers I heard tell about?”

  “Goodness gracious, no.” Clem clucked at the mule when Stonewall slowed. “A body can tell a lot about a person from the way they talk and act and dress. Take you, for instance. You talk real properlike, just like those who have a lot of book learnin’. And you keep your clothes all neat, your boots rubbed to a shine. Just like a person whose ma was fussy about such things.”

  The gunman felt a newfound respect for the talkative Tennessean. “You have me pegged,” he confessed. “You’re downright incredible.”

  Bowdrie’s cheeks tinged crimson. “Shucks, I’m no great shakes, mister. I never had me any schoolin’. Pa claimed it was a waste of time. He wouldn’t abide a book in our cabin.” Clem’s mouth pinched together. “Ma could read and write some, and she taught us a little on the sly. Enough for my brothers and me to scrawl our names when we need to.”

  “Where are your parents now? Back in Possum Hollow?”

  “I wish. No, Pa died a few years after the war. He couldn’t stand what had happened to the South. It plumb broke his heart.” Clem took a breath. “As for ma, she didn’t much care to live once pa went to his reward. She wasted away to nothin’.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that
,” Vasco said, and meant it. The War had played hell with so many lives, his own included.

  Clem shrugged. “Like you said. That part of our life is done and over with. We have to get on with livin’ or we’ll just brood ourselves into an early grave.”

  “Anyone ever tell you that you have a way with words?” Vasco asked innocently, and was puzzled when the tracker blushed again. The man couldn’t take a compliment if his life depended on it.

  At that juncture Clell Bowdrie joined them, looping back alongside Clem, who shot him a stem glance. “Don’t mind me. Since you two are bein’ so friendly, I thought it proper I should be, too.” He nodded at Vasco. “It ain’t every day Clem takes a shine to someone.”

  The gunman saw no reason for the brother to make an issue of it. He was about to say something to that effect when Tick Bowdrie let out with a short piercing whistle which sounded exactly like the cry of a hawk. The signal caused the other Bowdries to face front and grip their rifles.

  Ahead of them lay a wide canyon. To the west grew willows and alamos. Vasco knew that neither grew far from water, so he suspected there must be a spring or a tank hidden among the trees.

  But it wasn’t the island of green or the likelihood of water which had prompted Tick Bowdrie to whistle. He reined up to wait for them, then announced, “I spotted some Injuns about the same time they spotted me. Five or six, maybe more. They ducked back into the brush.”

  “Apaches?” Vasco asked.

  “I couldn’t rightly tell. They moved too blamed fast.”

  Clem moved into the lead. “Let’s go have a look-see. Maybe they’ll parley. If they’re Apaches, they might know where Taggart and the renegades hide out. If they’re not Apache, they still might have seen some sign of him. It won’t hurt to ask.”

  “Apaches ain’t the only hostiles hereabouts,” Clell noted. “We’d best be rememberin’ that.”

  Vasco scanned the dense vegetation as they warily approached. He was impressed by the Bowdries. They had spread out about ten feet apart and held their rifles loosely across their thighs, ready for anything. Clem already had the Sharps cocked.

  Sixty yards out, the Tennesseans reined up. “This is as close as we go until they show themselves,” Clell declared for the gunman’s benefit. “It wouldn’t do to ride on in there and end up lookin’ like porcupines.”

  “They’re watchin’ us. I just know it,” Tick Bowdrie said.

  Vasco felt the same. It made his skin itch as if from a heat rash. He would never let on, but he fought shy of tangling with Indians whenever he could. They were too unpredictable, for one thing.

  For another, they liked to mutilate their enemies, and Vasco had a secret dread in that regard.

  Suddenly Razor growled and took a few steps but stopped at a word from Clem.

  A warrior had appeared at the tree line. He was taller than most Indians Vasco had seen, and stark naked. Arms held out from his sides to show he meant no harm, the man came toward them. His black hair hung in a wide bang at the front and thin strands behind. Paint had been smeared on his face. Decorating his body were several tattoos.

  “Look at this yack, prancin’ around in the altogether,” Tick muttered. “And I heard a Yankee once claim that Injuns are just like ordinary folks!”

  Clell chortled. “Maybe you shouldn’t look, Clem,” he joked. “Ma used to say it’s downright sinful for a person to show so much skin.”

  The tall warrior halted twenty feet away. Tapping his chest, he said in passable Spanish, “Estamos amigos. No shoot us. We are friends.”

  Clem surprised Vasco by answering in the same language. “You are a Yuma.”

  “Si, señor. Me llamo Pelo.”

  The revelation disturbed Vasco. He had never had any dealings with the Yumas, but he had been told they were as two-faced as a politician. A man never knew from one day to the next what sort of reception the Yumas would give him. At times the tribe was on friendly terms with whites. At other times, and without prior warning, they would set on innocent travelers and viciously massacre them.

  “You are part of a war party,” Clem Bowdrie said.

  Pelo smiled. “No. No. We are hunting. We look for deer. Need meat in village.”

  Vasco was suspicious. The Yumas lived along the Colorado River, many miles from the canyon. It was unlikely the band had traveled so far in the pursuit of game.

  “He’s lyin’, Clem,” Clell said in English. “They don’t paint their faces to go huntin’. My guess is, they’re lookin’ for skin to lift.”

  By that, the Tennessean referred to the Yuma custom of not only scalping an enemy, but peeling off the skin of the entire head, including the ears.

  Vasco saw Pelo’s eyes dart toward the skinny tracker. He had a hunch the warrior spoke English, but would not admit as much. To test his idea, he interjected, “If he’s lying to us, let’s shoot him and be done with it.”

  The Yuma took a short step backward and nervously wet his lips. “Me friend,” he stressed in Spanish, wagging his empty hands. “I not want hurt white men. You come. Much water. You drink with us.”

  Tick gazed toward the trees. “That reminds me. Where do y’all suppose the rest of them heathens got to? Not a one has showed himself except for our friend here. I don’t like it much.”

  Neither did Vasco. It was obvious the Yumas were up to something or Pelo would not be acting as agitated as a caged bobcat. But for the life of him, Vasco could not guess their intent. An attack would be sure-fire suicide, since the warriors would be gunned down before they covered half the distance.

  Vasco glanced toward the vegetation, seeking some sign of the warriors. As he did, Razor swung to the north and growled a low, menacing challenge. Before the gunman quite knew what was happening, all hell broke loose.

  Pelo let out with a screech that would have raised the hackles on a corpse, even as he threw himself to the ground. To the north a dozen voices answered with cries every bit as strident, and up over the side of a gully which neither Vasco nor the Bowdries had realized was there charged the rest of the war party. About two-thirds were armed with mallet-headed clubs and round hide shields. The rest carried long bows and had shafts notched to sinew strings.

  Vasco reacted without thinking. His right arm flashed to his Colt and the pistol leaped from its holster with lightning speed. Three times his thumb worked the hammer. Three shots sounded in swift succession, leaving a pair of Yumas dead before they could unleash their deadly arrows.

  Clem’s first shot was only a heartbeat less fast. The big Sharps boomed and the foremost warrior, a stocky specimen wildly swinging a war club, was cored through the brain by the heavy-caliber slug.

  Tick and Clell also cut loose, the Spencer and Winchester banging like twin hammers.

  An arrow whizzed past Vasco. He replied with the Colt. His horse uttered a piercing whinny, then pranced to one side. Swiveling, he saw Pelo leap up and spring at Clem. The tracker went to slam the Sharps into the warrior s brow but a blur of hair and sinew was on the Yuma first.

  Razor tore into the warrior like a saw into wood. Teeth which could break bone ripped through soft flesh as if it were so much soggy paper. Pelo screamed as he was borne to the ground. He tried to fight back. He pushed and punched and kicked at the mongrel but he might as well have been flailing at a grizzly for all the good it did him. Razor’s fangs sank in deep again and again. Blood spurted everywhere. Pelo’s scream rose to a wavering crescendo. Then the wolf dog’s jaws clamped on the tall warrior’s throat and the scream abruptly died.

  Vasco did not get to see what happened after that. A brawny Yuma swinging a war club was on him. He felt the heavy head smash against his left side and nearly cried out. His arm and leg went numb. Twisting, he pointed the Colt. The Yuma closed in again just as he fired.

  Suddenly the gunman’s horse buckled. Vasco threw himself clear to keep from being pinned but his numb limbs impeded him. He fell short. Before he could roll into the clear, his horse came down on his legs.<
br />
  The pain was bad enough. Being caught fast was worse. Vasco jerked around and saw another warrior almost on him. The warrior’s face was lit with bloodthirsty glee. Evidently the Yuma thought it would be an easy kill. Vasco disillusioned him with a shot to the sternum which spun the Yuma around.

  The warrior staggered back, grit his teeth, and came at the gunfighter again.

  Vasco had the Yuma dead to rights. Even though his legs were pinned, all he had to do was extend the Colt, pull back the hammer, and stroke the trigger. Which he did. But in the heat of battle he had forgotten to count his shots. When he squeezed, all he heard was a faint click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  Whipping the war club on high for a killing stroke, the stricken Yuma took a bound and was poised to swing when a buckskin-clad figure hurtled out of nowhere and rammed into him. The warrior was knocked onto his side. He tried to rise but Clem Bowdrie’s revolver spat smoke and lead three times.

  Behind Bowdrie yet another Yuma appeared.

  “Look out!” Vasco shouted, to no avail. Clem could not hear him above the sudden thunder of Clell’s and Tick’s guns.

  Bending to the left, Vasco got his hands on the stock of his Winchester and yanked the .44.40 from the boot. In a smooth motion he straightened, levered a round, and fired at the exact instant the warrior was about to plunge a knife into Clem’s back.

  The bullet caught the warrior low in the chin, passed completely through his head, and burst out above his ear. The man died on his feet.

  At the very last moment, Clem had awakened to the danger and whirled. On seeing the Yuma crumple, Clem glanced at Vasco and smiled. Tm obliged.”

  Vasco shifted, surprised he had been able to hear Clem speak above the din. Only then did he realize how quiet it had suddenly become. As he turned, he learned why. The battle was over.

  Eight Yumas lay on the ground, two of them twitching as if having fits. Four others were in full flight to the northwest, and one was wounded. He hobbled along like an ungainly jackrabbit.