White Apache 8

by David Robbins

Clem’s resolve wavered. She had made up her mind to tell him the whole truth in the hope that he would think more kindly of her. But it did not appear to be working.

  “It never much mattered to me, bein’ like a man and all. Not until I met you.” Her voice lowered to just above a whisper. “I know I’m makin’ a fool of myself sayin’ this, but the moment I set eyes on you, I wanted you for my very own. I took to thinkin’ about you every minute of the day and night. You were even in my dreams. About drove me loco.”

  At long last Boone Vasco stirred. He raised his head to stare at her but his eyes were still lost in the shadows.

  Suddenly Clem could no longer contain herself. Her feelings gushed out in a flood of words. “If it helps any, I’m so, so sorry! I should have guessed that you wouldn’t see me for what I am. I mean, I know that I’m awful plain. Plainer than most every woman I’ve ever met. Clell says that’s why I can pass for a man so easy. Hardly anyone ever takes me for a woman.” Forgetting herself, she put a hand on the gunman’s arm. “I don’t blame you for bein’ put out with me. And I won’t hold it against you if you never want to talk to me again. But at least say something. Let me know what you’re thinkin’. It means more to me than I can ever say.”

  Vasco stared at her hand a moment, then lightly clasped her wrist and moved her arm aside.

  “Oh? Is it that bad, then? You hate me?” Clem’s shoulders sagged and she bit her lower lip. “I should have figured as much. A woman like me has no right to set her sights on a man like you. That’s partly why I couldn’t bring myself to come right out and tell you how I felt. I was afeared you’d laugh in my face. And who could blame you? I am ugly as sin. I—” She had opened her mouth to say more but froze when the gunman touched a finger to her lips.

  “Enough, woman. You’re worse than a damn biddy hen.”

  It had been years since anyone used that tone on Clementine Bowdrie and was able to get away with it. She averted her eyes, the tears pouring over her cheeks.

  “I liked you better when you didn’t jabber like one of those big city, highfalutin types,” Vasco added gruffly.

  Clem sniffled. “I’m sorry. I won’t inflict myself on you again.” Her legs nearly gave out as she tried to stand and she swayed and would have fallen had the man from Kentucky not caught her and sat her back down.

  “Quit apologizing. You have nothing to be sorry for. If anything, I’m the one who should be begging your forgiveness.”

  “What?” Clem said, unsure whether her ears were working fine or whether they were stuffed up.

  Boone Vasco held her hand in his and stroked her knuckles with a fingertip. “I had no call to get you this upset. My pa always told me that a true gentleman never makes a lady cry. I hope you’ll see fit to overlook how I’ve been acting.”

  “I’d overlook anything you did,” Clem declared without hesitation. She resisted an urge to pinch herself to see if she was imagining that the man she adored was actually holding her hand and speaking kindly to her.

  “You’ve been honest with me. So it’s only fair that I be the same with you,” Vasco said. Standing, he began to pace, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. “This doesn’t come easy to me. I’m not one of those jaspers who suffers from diarrhea of the jawbone.”

  Clem offered no comment. She was afraid that if she did, she would say the wrong thing and ruin the moment. This was the first time in her entire life that she had ever been drawn to a man, and it had her so befuddled that she knew she would make a total jackass of herself if she hadn’t already.

  Unknown to her, Boone Vasco was just as confused. At first he had been angry at her for tricking him the way she had done, but the more he thought about it, he came to see that she had not done it on purpose. And now, staring down into her tear-filled eyes, he became aware of another fact that troubled him so greatly he had to turn away or risk having her see the truth for herself, a truth he did not feel he was ready to share for fear that it would change his life forever.

  Clearing his throat, Vasco began by saying, “I want you to know that I don’t hold this mix-up against you. What happened, happened.”

  “Thank you,” Clem said with more sincere gratitude than anyone had ever shown him in all the years he had lived.

  Vasco had to clear his throat again. “But now that it’s out in the open, there are a few things we need to settle.” He paused. “For one thing, I’m not the marrying kind. There hasn’t been a woman born who can throw her noose over me. I like the life I’m living and I have no hankering to change.”

  “That’s not the idea you gave me before,” Clem mentioned before she could stop herself. “It seemed to me that your life has been a lonely one.”

  “I don’t know what gave you that hare-brained notion,” Vasco declared, and wanted to kick himself for lying to her. “I like being able to do as I please, when I please. I like not having a woman to make demands on me.”

  “I’d never do that.”

  Truer words had never been spoken. Clementine Bowdrie was the most independent woman Boone Vasco had ever met. But he was not willing to admit as much, not when doing so would admit his own feelings. “Maybe so,” he allowed, “but that doesn’t change the fact you’re grazing off your pasture. If you keep on like this, you’ll just make yourself more upset. I’m not looking to get hitched.”

  Clementine had not made any mention of marriage. She had not thought that far ahead. All she asked was to be able to show him that there was more to her than a man might suspect at first glance. She wanted to hold him, to press her lips to his. And since she had always been a person who suited her actions to her thoughts, she began to rise to do just that.

  But at that exact moment, not all that far to the north, gunfire erupted.

  “Listen!” Vasco cried, swinging around. Secretly he was glad for the distraction. There had been a strange gleam in the woman’s eyes, and for a moment he had dreaded that she was about to do something they would both regret.

  From the camp came Clell’s bellow. “Clem! Vasco! Where the hell are you two?”

  “We’d better get back there,” Vasco said. Without thinking he took her hand and headed for the fire. He had gone a third of the distance when he awoke to his mistake and let go of her as if her fingers were hot coals. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “No need to be.”

  Clell and Tick both had their rifles in hand and were gazing northward when their sister and the gunman stepped out of the ring of darkness. Clell scrutinized the pair and made as if to comment but apparently changed his mind.

  Tick Bowdrie wagged his Spencer. “Sounded like a hell of a battle. My guess would be that those shots were no more than a mile off. We should go have us a look-see.”

  “In the dark?” Clell responded. “Who knows what kind of mess we might find ourselves in? Maybe some Apaches just wiped out a wagon train of pilgrims. Or maybe more Yumas are in the area.” He gestured sharply. “I say we stay put until daylight.” Frowning, Tick turned to their sister. “What do you figure we should do, Clem?”

  Clementine hesitated. Ordinarily she was the one who made their important decisions. Her brothers trusted her judgment, without question. Whatever she chose, they would do. But in this instance her mind was in too much of a whirl for her to think with a clear head. Her every thought was of Boone Vasco.

  “Well?” Tick prompted.

  “I don’t rightly know,” Clem admitted, all too aware of their eyes on her. She had never let them down before and it upset her to do so now. Acting on sheer impulse, she said, “If there are Apaches or Yumas that close, it would pay for us to find out before they swoop down on us. We’d better put out the fire and go see.”

  Tick sneered at his brother. “I knew I was right. Let’s saddle up.” He moved to the fire and doused it with the coffee. Smoke rose in lazy curls into the air where it was whisked away by the brisk breeze.

  Boone Vasco thought they were making a mistake but he did not come out and say it. His employer had se
nt him to keep an eye on the trio. So where they went, he had to go. And, too, Vasco was so out of sorts over Clementine that he did as he always did when he was deeply disturbed; he withdrew inside of himself. He was hardly aware of helping to get the horses ready or of climbing on behind Clell.

  The Bowdries moved out in single file, Tick in the lead. Razor hung back near Clem as was the wolf-dog’s custom.

  Quiet had claimed the night. The manzanita rustled from time to time, and once a coyote yipped.

  Vasco knew he should have every sense alert. He shook his head to clear it but he could not stop thinking of Clem. His palms kept tingling as they had when he accidentally touched her chest. It provoked a hunger in him the likes of which he had not known since his late teens when he had been fond of a certain Kentucky mountain girl.

  Their course took them up over a hill and down into a narrow canyon rimmed to the north by high walls of stone. Vasco had his Winchester across his lap but had his hand on the barrel, not the breech where it should be.

  Suddenly Razor growled.

  The Bowdries immediately reined up. Tick raised his Spencer and leaned forward over the saddle horn as if he had spotted something.

  “What is it?” Clell whispered.

  The answer came in the form of a ragged volley of gunfire from the brush directly in front of them.

  Eleven

  It was Private Decker who brought the news to Captain Benteen.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I figured you’d want to know. We can’t find hide nor hair of that Injun, Antonio.”

  The troopers had retreated under cover of dense brush to a clearing where the wounded soldier, Simmons, was being tended. Several other men, among them Decker, had gone to collect their scattered horses and had returned just minutes ago.

  Benteen stiffened on hearing the report, and stood. “Could it be that he took a bullet and no one noticed?”

  “No, sir,” the private said. “Most of us remember him not having a scratch. The last anyone saw, he was hanging back by himself when we headed here.”

  “Then where—” Benteen began, and divined the answer in a flash. “Damn him. He went after the White Apache by himself.”

  “Really, sir?” Decker said, grinning. “Well, that works out real nice, doesn’t it? I mean, who cares if two Injuns kill each other off?”

  Benteen’s spine stiffened even more. “That Indian, Private, is a member of this patrol and a fellow member of the United States Fifth Cavalry. In my presence you will accord him the respect he deserves. Do I make myself clear?”

  Decker went as rigid as a board, his hands at his sides. “Yes, sir!” he said crisply. “No offense meant, sir.”

  “It’s a wise man who learns to control his tongue,” Benteen stated. Striding to the small fire, he stared down at the wounded trooper a few moments. “We’ll leave two men here to watch Simmons. The rest of us will mount up and go after Antonio. With any luck we can catch him before he gets himself killed.”

  While the officer was legitimately worried about the Jicarilla’s welfare, Benteen had an ulterior motive which he shared with no one. In their pursuit of Clay Taggart, the patrol had traveled deeper into the wilderness than he had ever been before, into an area few white men ever visited. They were so far off the beaten path that he would have a hard time leading them back out again. It would be best if they had the services of someone who knew his way around.

  Within three minutes the eight men were mounted and trotting eastward. Benteen had the troopers advance with their carbines at the ready. They moved as quietly as they could, which was still much too noisy to suit him. What with the rattle of their accoutrements and the creak of saddles, they made enough noise to be heard hundreds of feet off. But it could not be helped.

  Presently Benteen spied the knoll. He swung to the right and came at it from the south. As expected, there was no sign of either Taggart or Antonio. He went on, slower than before, his pistol clutched in his right hand. The night was so dark that he could not see farther than a stone’s throw away.

  They entered a narrow canyon flanked by high cliffs to the north. Benteen stayed on the south side where manzanitas and other plant growth afforded ample cover. Having already lost three men too many, he was taking no chances.

  Benteen could not say how far he had gone when he reined up to listen. Moments later he heard a sound that caught his breath in his throat. To the south a hoof had clumped against stone. Bending an ear in that direction, he heard another hoof fall. Someone was moving slowly toward them.

  By pumping his right arm, Benteen signaled to his men to dismount. They clustered around him for their whispered orders. “Spread out at five-foot intervals. Don’t fire unless I do.”

  “Is it Apaches, sir?” one of the troopers nervously asked.

  “I don’t know,” Benteen said, “but who else would be out in this godforsaken country in the dead of night?” Again he motioned and they fanned out as he had directed. Turning into the brush, he crept all of ten feet, to where he could see a winding approach into the canyon from the south.

  No sooner was Benteen in place than a rider materialized out of the murky veil of night. The man’s features were next to impossible for Benteen to make out. Not so the buckskins that the man wore.

  It couldn’t be Antonio, the officer reasoned, since the scout had on an Army uniform. On several occasions Benteen had seen Apaches in buckskins, so to his way of thinking, that suggested the rider must be one. And since the White Apache was in that area, it stood to reason that the rest of the renegades were as well. Benteen’s pulse speeded up as it occurred to him that the rider might be Delgadito himself.

  Another rider appeared. Then one more. Benteen could scarcely contain his excitement. He had been given a heaven-sent chance to atone for his earlier mistakes. If he could bring down the renegades, it would go a long way toward making up for the loss of his sergeant and the other two men.

  The officer glanced to the right. A row of pale faces were fixed on him. He faced the oncoming riders. The nearest was forty feet out and closing. Benteen still could not distinguish the man’s features. His every instinct screamed at him to open fire but he could not bring himself to squeeze the trigger until he was sure.

  The matter was taken out of Benteen’s hands when one of his men stepped on a twig which cracked loudly. Benteen saw the foremost rider lean forward and start to raise a rifle. Acting on the spur of the moment, out of fear for the safety of his men and in the belief that the rider was about to shoot, he opened fire.

  At the blast of the pistol the troopers let loose with a volley from their carbines. None of them were skilled marksmen, however. In their haste and in the dark each and every one missed.

  Tick Bowdrie lived through the initial lead hailstorm. Thinking that he had been fired on by Yumas or Apaches, and with no cover handy, he did that which his attackers were least likely to expect. Tick leveled the Spencer and charged, shooting at gun flashes. His mule pounded on down the slope into the thick of the brush. To his left a figure was framed by a manzanita and Tick instantly sent a slug into the man’s torso.

  Another volley rang out, so loud it was like the peal of cannons. Men were firing every which way. Tick’s mule brayed and barreled into the growth. It took Tick unawares and before he could clamp his legs or grip the reins securely a low limb caught him flush across the chest, spilling him to the hard ground, where he lay dazed.

  Meanwhile, Clell, Clem and Boone Vasco had taken cover. The gunman saw the brother and sister dart forward to aid Tick, drawing a flurry of rifle fire from the manzanita. Whipping the Winchester to his shoulder, he covered them, using muzzle flashes to guide his aim. Lead ricocheted off the boulders around him, some so close that one nicked his hat.

  Vasco saw Clem suddenly go down and a lump leaped into his throat. Furiously working the lever of his rifle, he rushed to her side. The Winchester went empty as he sank to one knee to find she was unhurt, merely reloading the Sharps. She s
miled at him, then burst from concealment to rejoin Clell.

  Leaning against the boulder which had screened her, Vasco took several deep breaths. He had to get a grip on himself! he realized. Another careless act like that could cost him his life.

  In the manzanitas, Captain Oliver Benteen was on his knees, feeding cartridges into his pistol with hands which shook so badly he could hardly hold them. The Indians were attacking but his men were putting up stiff resistance, and at that moment he was prouder of them than he had ever been.

  Inserting the last of the cartridges, Benteen slapped the hinge shut and rose. Two figures in buckskins had tried to rush the patrol and had been driven to ground. The pair were exchanging random shots with his soldiers. But he was more concerned about the one who had plowed into the manzanitas. For all he knew, the savage might still be alive, might be picking his men off one by one.

  Benteen stalked through the underbrush, pausing every few steps to scour the shrublike trees around him. He glimpsed something move off to the left, something big, so he slanted toward it, the hammer of his Colt at full cock.

  Not ten feet away Tick Bowdrie rolled onto his side and put his hands under him to rise. He froze on beholding a two-legged form skulking through the dark. The Spencer had been sent flying when he tumbled but he still had the shotgun slung over his back. He quickly unslung it, cocked the piece, and inched into a crouch.

  Tick strained to see the bushwhacker. He could tell the man wore a dark shirt and pants and a hat. Beyond that, he had no notion whether the rifleman was white or red. The man’s clothes were not any help since many Indians liked to wear white man’s apparel and many frontiersmen went around in Indian garb.

  Only one fact had any bearing for Tick Bowdrie; the man had tried to kill him. That earned the bushwhacker a one-way ticket to Hell, in Tick’s book. He quietly rested the muzzle of the shotgun on a branch, aligned the barrel right where he wanted it, and waited for the man to take just one more step.

  Captain Benteen paused. A feeling had come over him that he was in dire peril. He looked to the right and the left but saw no cause for alarm. Bending at the knees, he paid particular attention to those inky patches nearest him. Still he failed to see anyone.